Fumbles & Fairytales
by Terminally Introverted
Summary: Alfred is a professional football player, and his life is a constant stream of fame, fortune, and luxury. But something is missing. When he comes across his old high school yearbook and remembers the deep friendship he had with an upperclassman named Arthur, he's determined to find him, and he does – in a psychiatric hospital.
1. Chapter 1

_And finally, here we have it! The long awaited fourth installment of my ongoing hospiverse series. This story focuses on Alfred and Arthur's side of things. Reading the other stories may add to the experience, though it's not at all necessary to read those in order to understand this!_

 _(Please note this story required extensive amounts of research. I apologize for any inaccuracies, though I suspect they're kept to a minimum.)_

* * *

Alfred could not fathom why this, out of all things, was how he decided to spend his day off. But it had to get done at some point or another, he guessed. All around him were boxes, most of them containing items he had not seen in years. Some were filled with clothes, others sport trophies he had won before he could read; a few remained unopened. Maybe he had allowed this to pile up for too long. Then again, he was almost never in this house… or this state, for that matter.

This damn closet really was too big. Cleaning it out felt nearly as strenuous as practice had yesterday, but maybe that had something to do with his already aching muscles. Alfred groaned as he used a shoe rack as a step ladder in order to reach the top shelf of the huge, seemingly boundless walk-in closet, and attempted to lift yet another box. It ended up being heavier than he expected. Not to mention bigger, and this shoe rack wasn't exactly stable, and oh god the ground was a lot closer than it was a second ago-

Alfred landed on his back with a tremendous thud. An avalanche of what turned out to be books spilled out from the shelf in every direction, and just when he allowed himself to believe he had avoided it, a hard-covered, heavy silver one landed spectacularly on his face. Alfred groaned again. If he had the same amount of coordination he did in the field in any other aspect of his life, things would probably be a lot easier.

It was not until Alfred sat up that he got a good look at what had assaulted him. When he did, he actually laughed out of a strange mix of shock and amusement. Sitting open-faced in his lap, glossy pages shining, was his high school yearbook. "Well I'll be damned," he said to the empty space around him. The year on the cover was two thousand on the dot – his freshman year. It felt like a lifetime ago. "Dude, I thought I lost this thing…" he trailed off, leafed absently through the pages, and stepped into the past.

One thing, however, sent him flying directly into it.

Alfred thought he had completely forgotten. It had been years, nearly a decade, of constant activity and change. He had no choice but to forget. But now that he was staring at this picture, one that stuck out from the others like a flash of sun in a downpour of rain, he realized that had never truly been the case. Messy blonde hair, eyebrows the size of Texas, a permanent scowl… all of it leapt from the page and hit Alfred like a smack to the face. He lifted a hand and ran his finger over the printed letters, perhaps to remind himself they were real: _Arthur Kirkland._

All these years, and Alfred remembered perfectly.

Right from the start.

...

Alfred was beginning to wonder if this was not actually a high school, but a small town. He stood in the middle of a hallway that looked no different from the last five he had walked through, clutching a tattered map in his hand, and glancing uselessly to either side of him as if directions would be written on one of the walls. He wondered if he was even in the right wing. What was a 'wing,' anyway? If one thing made sense to him at the moment, it was that this really was nothing like Tennessee. Everything was just… bigger, in the city. And more confusing. Definitely more confusing.

Alfred was broken from his musings at the sound of an indignant scoff. "Must you stand in everyone's way?"

The voice startled Alfred – partially because he wasn't expecting it, but mostly due to how it sounded. It was something he had only heard on television. "Well I'll be!" Alfred whipped around, grinning madly. "I've never heard _that_ accent 'round these parts! You must be, like, British or somethin'!"

The boy raised his eyebrows – the first thing Alfred noticed was how massive they were – and blinked. "Acute observation," he said, the corner of his mouth twitching into a grimace. "You have a bit of a twang yourself. Now, please, if you could step aside so I can pass through…"

"Twang? That's a real funny word." The Brit did nothing but sigh, then attempted to step around Alfred's unmoving form. Alfred quickly remembered his situation and reached out to touch his shoulder. "Hey, wait, could you help me out a second?"

The Brit adjusted his hold on his books and sighed again, as if he was already fatigued by this conversation. Alfred would not be particularly surprised. This boy certainly _looked_ like a tired old man – really, what kind of high school student wore a sweater vest? "I suppose," he said. "What seems to be the issue? And please don't take terribly long, I'm going to be late."

"You sound a little uptight, fella. Calm down." Ignoring the glare Alfred knew he was receiving, he lifted the crumbled map in his hand and smiled sheepishly. "Anyway, it seems I'm lost. Can you point me to the science wing thingy?"

"That's on the other side the building." The Brit narrowed his eyes. "Are you a transfer student? I don't recall seeing you last year."

"Well, I moved over here this summer, but I'm a freshman."

"Oh." The Brit creased his brow, looked Alfred up and down, then shook his head and met his gaze. He almost had to crane his neck to do so. "Right, then. Jolly good. Anyway, in order to get to the science department, all you have to do is walk down the hall, take a right, go down the second set of stairs, take a left…" Alfred tried to look attentive but the directions were already over his head. The Brit must have sensed that, somehow, because he trailed off with yet another sigh. "On second thought, it would probably be easier to simply walk you there."

"Fine with me!" Alfred extended his arm in a dramatic pointing gesture. "Lead the way, uh…" He trailed off, raised and eyebrow, and looked to the Brit pointedly.

"Arthur," he said flatly, taking a step forward. "Alright, follow me-"

"The name's Alfred," said Alfred, quickening his pace to match Arthur's hurried steps. "Alfred F. Jones, all the way from the great state of Tennessee."

Arthur glanced briefly to the side, and then nodded once. "Well, that certainly explains that accent of yours."

"Do I really have an accent? I never noticed. I bet people notice yours all the time, though!" Alfred couldn't contain his grin. "Man, I can't get over it, you sound like Dr. Who or Sherlock or something. Where are you from anyway?"

There was a pause. "London," said Arthur finally, with a slightly dazed shake of the head. "Has anyone ever told you you talk quite a bit?"

Alfred shrugged. "Not really. Has anyone ever told you you don't talk much?"

"Can't say they have."

"Well, there you go." Alfred rounded the corner behind Arthur, who led them down a narrow, crowded staircase. He felt like a salmon fighting its way upstream. "Ah man, we really aren't in Kansas anymore, Toto. Well, it was Tennessee for me, but still. Good movie. Anyway, there's way more people up here in the city. It's mighty confusing, I'll tell you what."

"Quite." Arthur glared as students shoved past him, or maybe that glare was simply perpetual. Alfred was beginning to think the latter. "Tennessee is a ways away. What brings you to New York?"

"It was my dad's doin', mostly. Something about more career opportunity here in the big apple." At that, Alfred's grin finally fell. He really did miss the countryside. There was just something about the open fields, clear skies, small towns… he fought the urge to sigh and smiled again. After all, if he never moved to the city, chances are he never would have gotten to meet a real, live English person! "But ya know, I'm adjusting. I should be asking how you got here. Isn't London, like, by Africa or something?"

"Not… quite." Arthur cleared his throat and stared down the hall, as if he suddenly had no idea where he was going. "My family moved here for personal reasons."

Alfred considered pressing on, but decided against it. He was raised better than that. He just nodded. "Alrighty. Hey, about London, is it true that y'all call elevators lifts?"

"Yes," said Arthur shortly. Then, he stopped dead in his tracks. "We're here."

"Huh?" Alfred looked around, remembered what they had been doing in the first place, and stopped himself. He was surprised when he felt slightly disappointed. "Right, the science wing. Thank you much. I'm sure I can find my room from here."

"I would hope." The bell rang, and Arthur groaned. "Bullocks, I'm late. Goodbye, Alfred."

"Hey, thanks again for gettin' me here!" said Alfred as Arthur turned. Arthur raised his hand in recognition, and Alfred could not help but watch as he walked away – messy blonde hair, stiff posture, sweater vest and all. He knew he was already late, but he could not help but call out, "I'll be seeing you round, right?"

Surprisingly, Arthur paused to look over his shoulder. For a moment he only stared back at Alfred, seemingly conflicted, and finally nodded. There seemed to be a lot of purpose in the simple act. "I suppose," he mumbled. Arthur then whipped around and walked away even faster than he had before.

It was not until then that Alfred noticed… he had the nicest green eyes.

...

Another pile of books spilled from the top shelf, and Alfred's senses came flooding back. He tightened his grip on the page and traced the letters with his eyes again. All these years he had gone on without even thinking about this era in his life, and suddenly, overwhelmingly, it was all hitting him again.

He remembered the first time they met like it happened yesterday. On top of that, Alfred remembered almost everything that followed it, albeit it was only in pieces. It seemed that, even though there were thousands of people in that school, it was always Arthur that would lead Alfred to this room or that office, always Arthur that he would constantly run into and sit with during breaks. Arthur would always scowl and roll his eyes, always mumble some snippy remark… but he kept finding Alfred. And Alfred doubted, even now, that that was entirely coincidental.

Over the time they spent together in the hallways – and eventually, beyond them – Alfred had gotten to know Arthur pretty well. He knew he was three grades above him. He knew he had three brothers, all of them scattered across the United Kingdom. He knew he drank too much tea to be healthy, had a crazy obsession with Shakespeare, and, even though he would go to great lengths to deny it, quite enjoyed knitting. He knew there was a lot of compassion behind that hardened glare, when Arthur chose to let it show.

But of course, there were a few things he didn't know. Alfred never did find out what "personal reasons" Arthur had for moving to the states. He never knew much about his family, or exactly _why_ his brothers had so eagerly moved away from London. Above all, Alfred didn't know why they lost contact. He didn't even remember how it happened. Nearly ten years, and all Alfred had was a set of fragmented memories, about a million questions, and a book.

Still dazed, Alfred flipped to the back pages. He searched the multicolored array of signatures, promises to hang out over the summer, overblown compliments and declarations of close friendships from people he did not even remember knowing, and finally, like a diamond in the rough, an impossibly neat note written in plain black.

 _Alfred,_

 _Meeting you was an… interesting experience, to say the least. Regardless, I'm thankful that it happened. You've given me a great last year, not to mention a great friendship. Good luck with the rest of high school. I'll be seeing you._

 _-Arthur_

Alfred realized, with what felt like a slap in the face, that the words were a lie. Arthur had written this on the last day Alfred ever saw him.

Maybe he knew a lot about Arthur, but more than anything, he knew watching Arthur walk away that day hurt like hell. Waiting months and then years for a call or text that never arrived was worse. Old pain tore into his chest anew. Alfred realized something then… perhaps it had never left. Maybe he had just grown to be skilled at ignoring it.

By the middle of Alfred's sophomore year, he had convinced himself he was over Arthur. He had about a million new friends by then. He had made the football team with flying colors, girls were constantly after him, and his life was a busy one. Things were hardly any different now. Alfred had a career, one that sent him traveling all over creation and left him with thousands if not millions of fans. But, despite all of that, here he was thinking of Arthur again, with such fondness it as if they had never drifted apart. And that must mean something.

A sudden rush of adrenaline caused Alfred to slam the yearbook closed. He clambered to his feet, nearly hit his head on the shelf, and just about lost his balance. By the time Alfred regained his footing, he had made a decision. A decade was enough. All these years, all these questions, and Alfred was beyond ready to get some answers. He was not a confused teenager anymore. He had power; he had determination. Leaving the mess of clutter in his wake, he ran to his computer. There was only one thought left in his head.

Alfred was going to find Arthur Kirkland if it was the very last thing he did.

.

The Internet, Alfred decided after about three hours, was not as useful as people claimed it was.

Alfred removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes, the blue glow of the screen having left them stinging and tired. He had known Arthur wasn't much for technology – in fact, Alfred distinctly remembered him once blaming E-Readers for what he called 'the downfall of the literary world' _–_ but he could hardly believe there wasn't a trace of him _somewhere._ It was as if he had dropped off the face of the planet.

Tired, frustrated, and slightly disheartened, Alfred closed out of the browser and rested his head in his arms. Barely a second later, his phone rang. The piercing sound shattered his moment of self-indulgent pouting.

"What's up?" answered Alfred, hoping he didn't sound as dejected as he felt.

"Alfred, where are you? I thought we were going to go out for dinner."

"Hey, Mattie bro!" Alfred sat up, suddenly aware there were things going on beyond this sudden fixation. He checked the tiny digital clock in the corner of his screen, realized it was after six pm, and silently cursed himself. Damn. He was supposed to be at Matthew's place an hour ago. He was only in town so often, after all. He usually spent every moment he could with his brother. "Oh, crap, was that today? Sorry. I got all wrapped up in something."

"Oh. Well, that's okay. Do you still want to go out? There's this nice little barbeque place that just opened, and-"

"Hold up," said Alfred, interrupting. For once he could not care less about food. "Matt, remember back when we were in high school?"

"Um, I would hope I remember."

"Okay, but like, remember that one dude I always hung out with?" Alfred paused, for some reason unwilling to actually say his name. If Matthew didn't know anything, maybe didn't even remember he existed at all, then he was truly stuck. He was met with silence. "You know… British, big eyebrows, stuffy as hell?" More silence. Alfred sighed. "Arthur Kirkland?" He finished slowly, drumming his fingers on the desktop.

Alfred could hear Matthew inhale sharply on the other line. He waited for the torturous silence to end, picking at the fabric of his jeans, listening to the summer wind blow through the trees, fighting not the hold his breath. Nothing.

"Matt, come on! Are you alive over there?"

Matthew quickly cleared his throat. "Sorry," he said. He sounded suddenly out of breath, in a hurry. "You know what, Al, I think we should skip dinner. Can I come over?"

"Whatever floats your boat, man," said Alfred, confused. "Did something happen, or-"

"I'll be right over." About a half-second after Matthew finished the last word, the line went dead. Alfred sat, dumbfounded, with the dial tone screeching in his ear for what felt like a very long time. Then he set down the phone and reopened the browser.

As promised, the doorbell rang less than twenty minutes later. Alfred stood from his desk and walked out of the office, past the door that led to the pool, down the hall, and finally to the open entryway. His footsteps echoed against the white-marble floors and white-painted walls; the crystal chandelier sparkled in the June sun. Alfred ignored all of it, ran to the door, and threw it open. He was speaking before Matthew had a chance to even step inside.

"Dude!" cried Alfred as Matthew kicked off his shoes. He was still dressed for work, in slacks and a flannel shirt. Alfred could never convince him that didn't go together. But his brother's fashion choices were hardly concerning to him right then. "Mattie, bro, this is getting ridiculous. I looked _everywhere_ for that British loser. Everywhere online, at least. I checked Facebook, Twitter, YouTube… I even checked MySpace, dude! _MYSPACE!"_

"Nice to see you too, Alfred." Matthew shut the door behind him and rolled his eyes. "It's not like it's been a month since I've seen you or anything."

Alfred forced himself to come back to reality. "Oh, sorry. Uh, how are you doing? Are you still running the nuthouse?"

"Don't call it that," Matthew scolded. He was a therapist in an inpatient psychiatric hospital, and he never took well to terms like 'nuthouse' or 'loony-bin,' as Alfred often dubbed it. Except this time, his protests were half-hearted. Matthew wouldn't even look him in the eye. "But yes, I've been doing fine. And the hospital is…um… fine, too." He stumbled through the words, and Alfred could not keep from growing suspicious.

"Are you sure you're okay?"

"Yes, I mean, of course, I just…" Matthew sighed, as if resigning to something. "Can we sit down somewhere?"

Alfred raised an eyebrow. "You're freaking me out, dude." Matthew said nothing, did not even look up. He only kept fussing with his sleeve. Confused, and honestly a little nervous, Alfred led Matthew to the kitchen and sat with him at the granite island.

"So, how are things?" asked Matthew after a moment. "How's football? You haven't hurt yourself playing lately, right? I don't think you can handle another concussion." He laughed but it sounded forced, and he kept looking around the room as if he had never seen it before. He was stalling. It was painfully obvious.

Alfred answered in rapid fire. "Everything is fine, the Patriots are doing good this season, and no, I haven't hurt myself, because I'm indestructible." The words were monotone. He hardly even thought about them. "Now, can you _please_ tell me why you look like you've seen a ghost?"

Matthew sighed, visibly deflating. He lowered his gaze to the countertop, his fingers tracing the patterns in the stone, his eyes darkening behind his glasses. Alfred's heart pounded uncomfortably hard in his chest. "You said you wanted to try and find your high school friend again, right? Arthur?"

"Yeah, I did. Why? You got some info?"

There was pause. Matthew seemed to choose his words carefully. "Well, kind of."

"Alright, we're getting somewhere!" Alfred grinned. "What's up? Did he friend you on some weird hipster website I don't know about?"

Another pause. "…No." Matthew looked up, sighed, and delivered the words evenly. "I know where Arthur is."

A sudden, overwhelming burst of energy erupted in Alfred's veins. "What? Really? How? Actually, it doesn't matter, just spill!"

"Actually, Alfred, it does matter." Matthew removed his glasses and rubbed at his eyes, and it was not until then that Alfred noticed the dark circles beneath them. His hands were even trembling. Matthew just looked so… tired. "I haven't been completely honest with you lately."

"What?" Alfred's mania faded. He searched for a clue in his brother's expression, but found nothing. This didn't make any sense. Matthew had always been too kind, too honest for his own good. Alfred could not fathom him hiding anything from him. "What do you mean?"

"Well, you obviously know where I work." Matthew looked out the huge bay window in the next room, and for a second Alfred almost expected him to make a running jump out of it. But instead Matthew just sighed. A shadow cast briefly over his face – a cloud must have passed over the skylight above them. "Arthur is… under my care, Alfred. He checked in about two months ago."

Alfred blinked, feeling numb. Either he did not understand what he was being told, or he simply didn't want to. For once he could not find anything to say.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you. Arthur doesn't remember me, and I was sure you didn't remember him, so I kept quiet," Matthew continued. "There's doctor-patient confidentiality to worry about, too."

"But you're telling me now," said Alfred, his mind spinning. "I don't get it, Mattie. What would Artie be in the hospital for?"

"I don't believe I can tell you that." Suddenly, Matthew straightened up, crossed his legs, and looked at Alfred as if they had never met. "How are you feeling about all of this?"

Alfred was not impressed. He leaned against his arm and raised an eyebrow, his mouth pressed to a hard line. Matthew had done this before. He had snapped into therapist mode, and was treating Alfred like a patient. Matthew probably didn't even realize he was doing it. "I think you can," said Alfred flatly, ignoring the question.

Matthew deflated out of his momentary perfect posture. "Right now, the diagnosis is schizophrenia."

Then, Alfred could not help it – he laughed. "What?" he asked, his voice loud and breathless. "Isn't that when you hear voices and crap? I'm Arthur's best friend, Mattie. I think I would now if the dude had a screw loose."

"You _were_ Arthur's best friend, Alfred. A lot can change in ten years." Matthew glanced up towards the skylight before looking back at Alfred, shaking his head once as if to clear it. "Look, I've already told you far too much. I can't tell you the details of Arthur's condition. It goes against my morality as a doctor. But I can tell you that Arthur is far, far different than you remember. He's a completely different person, Alfred. You probably wouldn't even recognize him. I'm sorry."

Alfred just shook his head. This was ridiculous. Arthur was still Arthur, wasn't he? And the Arthur he knew wasn't crazy. He was smart, sarcastic, sophisticated… _schizophrenic_ had no place in the description. "You bet your ass I'll recognize him," he said.

Matthew's fact went blank. "What do you mean?"

"I'm going to go see him," Alfred banged his fist on the counter, "and I'm going to do it tomorrow."

* * *

 _To be continued..._

* * *

 _AN: Ahh yes, I'm still alive. Sorry again for the inconsistent updates. I'm still writing, I promise! And here's the proof! I wouldn't expect weekly updates, but I'll be getting chapters out as fast as I can. Thank you everyone for sticking with me._


	2. Chapter 2

_AN: Arthur, in this fic, is severely mentally ill. I ask that the issue is treated with respect by the readers and not looked at as a cute quirk. Thank you._

* * *

Today was the type of day to roll the top down. Alfred drove through the familiar city streets with ease, sunglasses on, the warm wind in his hair and rolls of adrenaline tingling across his skin. He was already speeding, but it was not fast enough. Even if the car could go the speed of light, he still would not get to this hospital as quickly as he would like.

It had taken at least twenty minutes of badgering – or begging, if Alfred was going to be honest – to get the address out of Matthew. Eventually he had given in, with a weary sigh and a look that seemed to say, _good luck, you'll need it._ Alfred chose to ignore whatever implications Matthew had in that forlorn expression. His brother had always been a worrier, and that worry was usually for nothing. Usually.

Alfred pulled into the parking lot twenty minutes later, practically jumped from the car, and locked it with a click of the keys. He removed his sunglasses and took in his surroundings. His red, white, and blue Porsche looked a bit strange in the sea of grey Toyotas and Hondas, but whatever. The place looked pretty normal.

As he strode through the monstrous parking lot to the even bigger building, Alfred could not help but feel a bothersome tangle of nerves creep up above his manic excitement. It had, after all, been ten years. But that was okay, he told himself. It was better late than never.

As for Arthur's supposed condition… Alfred chuckled again as he pushed past the front doors. Arthur had always had a flair for the dramatic. Whatever was ailing him, Alfred was sure he could snap him out of it. If he could score a winning touchdown, outrun the paparazzi, and make it to a charity benefit all in one day, surely he could cheer up an old friend who just so happened to get stuck in a place like this. Surely.

"Hello!" said Alfred when he approached the front desk; unable to control his grin, his volume, or the way his fingers immediately started tapping the surface of the counter. "I'm here to visit someone!"

The man behind the desk raised an eyebrow. "Which department?"

"The, uh, what was it? The psych something or another." Alfred could probably recall the name if he thought about it, but he couldn't think straight right now. He only cared about one thing. "Wherever Arthur Kirkland is."

The man's dark eyes widened behind his glasses. "Oh…" He shook his head, looking a little dazed, but then just shook his throat and answered evenly. "Psychiatrics."

Alfred was practically bouncing as the man gave him directions to the ward, specifics on how long visiting hour lasted, and a series of strange looks. "Thank you!" he said almost before the man finished, already moving.

Above everything else, Alfred could not wait to see the look on Arthur's face when he saw him. He was sure to be overjoyed.

Fighting the urge to run like he had a three hundred pound linebacker chasing him, Alfred make his way through a series of twisting halls, heart pounding, mind racing, nerves firing like bullets from guns. When he passed the sign that read 'psychiatrics,' Alfred nearly had a heart attack.

The longue, thankfully, does not immediately give Alfred any _One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest_ vibes. Really, he had not expected it to. The Arthur he knew would never be caught dead anyplace with evil nurses, hysterical patients, or mass chaos. There was none of that here. But, perhaps more alarmingly, there was no Arthur, either. For a moment, Alfred was almost certain Matthew was playing a trick on him.

"Hey, Artie! You here?" Alfred cried out anyway, causing several of the occupants to turn and stare at him incredulously. They mirrored the same shocked, slightly concerned look that the man at the desk had, as well as Matthew. Alfred could only wonder what everyone's problem was. "Artie, Arthur, yoohoo! Remember me? Alfred F. Jones, high school hero?"

A small, airy response, in an all too familiar accent. "H-how…"

And that was when Alfred saw him. Clinging to the edge of the wall, pale-faced, looking into the room and staring right back at him, was Arthur. His eyes were just as bright and green as Alfred remembered.

If there were any major differences, Alfred was blind to them. A jolt of energy tore through his body, his mind, until there was nothing left but blinding joy and excitement. "Arthur!" Without waiting or even checking for a reaction, Alfred tore across the room and wrapped Arthur in a hug. "Dude, it's been forever! How are you, buddy? You look great! What are you even doing here, huh?"

Alfred did not really expect Arthur to hug him back, knowing him. But he did not expect him to gasp as if he had been slapped, did not expect him writhe out of his hold, and certainly did not expect him to, without any of the sophistication Alfred would expect from him, stumble through a response. "What, what in the bloody, blasted… what, Alfred? What are… why are you doing here?"

Alfred chuckled lightly and grinned. "Huh? Arthur, it's me! Aren't you happy to see me?"

"No!" said Arthur immediately, shaking his head almost like a dog trying to dry off. " _Who_ sent you? Who _sent_ you? Who sent _you?"_

"Sent me?" Alfred spoke with less enthusiasm, his smile less confident.

Arthur shook his head again. "Yes, quite, someone must have… must have… ran with the doors, coincidentally, as it always said before. Looking at me. Through that blasted window over the horizon."

Alfred furrowed his brow at the odd mix of words, too confused to speak, an odd knot forming in his stomach. He looked into Arthur's eyes then… really looked. They were the same green, but they were flat. Lifeless.

"Shut up," said Arthur, shattering the silence. "Shut up, bloody hell, just shut up!"

"I… didn't say anything." Alfred's voice had dipped to a near whisper. At this point, he was well aware that everyone in the room was staring at them. He didn't care. In fact he barely noticed, because his stomach was sinking, his hands were shaking, and he was really, really starting to believe he should listen to Matthew more often.

As if he had heard his thoughts, Matthew appeared around the corner barely a moment later. Alfred had known he was working today. Still, his office was on the other side of the hallway, he hadn't expected him to be so close… maybe Matthew had expected this. "Arthur," he said, even gentler than he usually spoke. "Everything is fine. You aren't in any danger."

"Did you bring him here?" Arthur's eyes flicked to either side, his hands wrapping around each other like dough being kneaded. "Did you bring him to… to what, spy on me and the lot?"

"No. No one is spying on you," said Matthew. It sounded as if he had repeated those same words countless times. "I can handle this, Arthur. Everything is fine. Go back to your room and lie down, okay? Everything is fine."

Alfred wanted to scream, at the very top of his lungs, that everything was not fine. It could not be fine, because someone had taken his friend, and replaced him with this… this _crazy person_. Alfred wanted to say all of that, but something was not allowing him to. All he could do was stare, frozen and confused, down at the familiar green eyes that were regarding him as a stranger. Maybe it was appropriate. Looking at him now, Alfred could only see a stranger.

The long moment finally passed, and Arthur mumbled something intelligible under his breath before retreating down the hall. He even walked differently. Alfred remembered the first time he had seen Arthur walk away, all perfect posture, poise, his head held high and his arms straight at his sides as if to say _look at how put together I am._ Now, Arthur was slouching. His arms were crossed. Instead of a sweater vest, he was wearing longue pants and a t-shirt. A moment later, a door opened, and Arthur was gone. Alfred continued to stare.

Matthew took a moment to speak. He took a breath, then whispered. "Alfred…"

Alfred turned to face him. Then, he really did shout. "What happened to him? How long has he been like this?"

"Right now, the diagnosis is schizophrenia." This was the second time in two days that Matthew had said those exact words, but this time, Alfred listened to them. This time he actually considered that they might mean something. "I don't know how long he's had symptoms, but this kind of thing usually doesn't show up until later in life. I'm sorry, Al."

At least he didn't say 'I told you so.' At least he did not call Alfred a fool for coming here, for starting this search in the first place, for expecting to pick things up where they left off ten years ago. Alfred swallowed the lump in his throat, blinked away his stinging tears. "I didn't expect that. I mean… I didn't know…"

"I know." Matthew reached out and rested his hand on Alfred's arm, his touch soft and familiar. "I know, Alfred. I didn't expect you to grasp the situation right away. I understand this must be extremely difficult to accept."

For once, Alfred was thankful that Matthew was treating him like a patient. He needed the consoling. "So…" He cleared his throat and glanced down the hall again, almost longingly. "This is what he's like now?" He couldn't believe it. He didn't want to.

"Well, yes and no. Arthur isn't always as… incoherent, as you just heard. Seeing you was quite a shock, I'm sure, and the more agitated he gets, the more disorganized his thoughts and speech tends to be. His auditory hallucinations will usually pick up, too."

Alfred tried to swallow, but his throat felt as dry as cotton. "Hallucinations?"

Matthew slowly nodded. "Yes, auditory and visual. It's a common symptom."

"Oh." Alfred glanced towards the exit – he wanted to leave, his mind was begging him to leave, but his feet were rooted to this very spot. "Does he hear little voices in his ear like in the movies, then?"

"Kind of. Mostly, he talks a lot about… unicorns." Matthew broke off and shook his head, as if saying too much. "I'm not really at liberty to discuss this with you. If you want to know what Arthur is going through, I suggest you ask him."

Alfred had come here with the intention of rekindling an old friendship, and suddenly, just that sounded like an impossible idea. "Will he…" He closed his eyes briefly. Speaking felt like resigning, but there was nothing left to do. "Will he even understand me, Mattie?" The final, _or is he too far gone_ , was omitted, but Alfred was sure his eyes conveyed that question just fine.

"Oh God, Alfred, yes," said Matthew immediately. "He might be ill, but he's still a functioning human being. He's not incapacitated. You just had a bad first impression."

Alfred wanted to say his first impression of Arthur had been ten years ago, and it had been a great one, but he did not have the heart. Instead, he flashed his best photo-op smile. "Well, of course he's functioning! He's Arthur!" Alfred forced away his doubt, forced away the tears in his eyes, and reminded himself of his determination. He had gotten this far. No way was one little mishap going to keep him away. "I'll stick around for awhile. When he's rested up, send him outside, okay? Thanks!"

Alfred turned around before Matthew could respond, still grinning, and walked away. It was not until he made his way to a small, enclosed courtyard outside the ward that he let it fall. Alfred tilted his head back and allowed the sun to warm his face, took deep breaths of fresh air, walked to a tree and touched the leaves… anything to remind himself he was here, in the present, and that this day was neither in the past nor a nightmare.

It would be fine, he told himself. He would be fine. Arthur would be fine. _They_ would be fine. Things always worked out in his favor, after all. Always. Alfred convinced himself of it, sat down on a bench, and waited.

But first, he remembered.

Alfred tore through the now-familiar twists and turns that made up the school hallways, delirious grin on his face, pushing past anyone and everyone who stood in his path with a quick 'sorry!' or ''cuse me, darling!' For the most part, he was met only with smiles – most everyone knew him already. But either way, Alfred didn't really pay attention to anyone's responses, because he was too eager to see the reaction of one.

"Arthur!" shouted Alfred as he ran into the cafeteria, nearly stumbling over his own feet. "Arthur, Arthur, I have news!"

"Good lord, Alfred!" Arthur stood from his seat – somewhere in the corner in the room, presumably to avoid attention, though that was impossible now – and Alfred bolted towards the familiar table. They had been meeting here everyday for weeks now. Ever since Alfred found out they had the same lunch period, it was inevitable. "What on earth is so important?"

"This!" Breathless, Alfred brought forward what he had been holding in his hand the whole way here – a brand-new jersey. "I made the team!"

Then, Arthur smiled, but he forced it away so quickly it was almost impossible to notice. Alfred noticed. "Oh," he said, lifting his shoulders in a nonchalant shrug. "That American football nonsense?"

By now, Alfred was used to Arthur's specific brand of callous sarcasm. It did nothing to deter his smile, his rapidly firing nerves, the overwhelming wave of pride engulfing him, or the slight, sneaking suspicion that Arthur was happier about this than he lead on. After months of training, it was finally paying off. Alfred has achieved the dream he had since moving here. And Arthur must know that.

"Yeah!" said Alfred, his cheeks beginning to hurt. "I might even get to be the quarterback! I might beat out all the upperclassmen, Artie, ain't that somethin'?"

"Don't call me Artie." Arthur paused, shrugged again, and continued with, "That certainly is… something, all right."

Alfred beamed. He had only known Arthur a few weeks, but he already knew that response was equal to him slapping Alfred on the back and breaking out in a cheer. "It is, isn't it?" Suddenly sheepish, Alfred lowered the jersey and cupped the back of his neck. "Say, Artie– Arthur, now that you've heard the news, I have something to ask of you."

"Well, alright," said Arthur. "Out with it, then."

Alfred threw the jersey over his shoulder and shoved his hands in his pockets. "Do you think you could come to my first game? You know, homecoming?"

"Oh." Arthur looked down and then away, his hand lifting to brush a tuft of unruly blond hair behind his ear. "Oh, Alfred, I don't even know the rules of that game."

"That's just fine! I can teach ya later." Alfred titled his head and waited, but Arthur didn't respond or even look up. He almost seemed embarrassed. "It's not about the game, really," Alfred continued, "but you're the first friend I made here, so I just thought it would be kinda neat for you to come."

Arthur cleared his throat. Finally, he turned his head and looked Alfred in the eye. "Well, I suppose going to one blasted game won't hurt." Then, he shrugged. Alfred's heart soared. "If it will make you happy, I'll go to the first one. If I have time."

Alfred tried to contain his grin, but failed. He also failed to hold back a small noise of excitement. "Ya promise?"

Arthur sighed. "Yes, Alfred. The first one." He smiled for the second time, one of those rare, fleeting smiles that Alfred could miss if he blinked. "I promise."

Arthur went to every game that year.

Alfred was stirred from his thoughts at the sound of footsteps, soft and nearly inaudible against the stone. He straightened his back and turned, blinking away fragmented memories, and opened his eyes to the present – Arthur was walking towards him, expression unreadable, eyes cast downward. He wasn't wearing shoes.

"Alfred. You… stayed," he said, now frozen in the middle of the courtyard.

"Yeah, of course." Alfred felt his lips quiver as he grinned.

A dry, flat response. "Dr. Williams sent me out here."

Alfred chuckled, but it sounded wrong in the small, silent, deserted space. "Yeah, thought so. Mattie is my brother, you know. Did you forget that?" Arthur did not respond, and Alfred spoke only for the sake of speaking. "I had to bug the crap out of him to get the address to this place, I'll tell you what. He's probably less than happy with me right now."

"Thought he looked a tad familiar…" Arthur broke off with a slight shake of the head. "My apologies for earlier," he said, so quietly the wind nearly drowned him out.

Alfred flipped his hand dismissively, even as memory shot through his mind and strange, unfamiliar guilt struck his heart. "It's cool. Sorry I kind of snuck up on you like that. I wanted to surprise you."

Arthur did not move. "You succeeded."

"You look a little uncomfortable just standing there. Why don't you come over here and-"

"How are you here?" asked Arthur, interrupting. Alfred blinked.

"I just told you. Matthew is my brother, and I asked him-"

"No. No, I mean, how are you… what is…" Arthur closed his eyes; brows furrowed, and took a series of long, slow breaths. He then delivered the words smoothly, although it sounded as though that was an effort. " _Why_ are you here? What sparked it?"

"I found our old yearbook." Arthur looked up at that, and Alfred locked eyes with him immediately, determined to see brightness and life where it had been. "I was flipping through it when I saw your picture. Then I just got to thinking, you know what, I miss my friend." He shrugged. There was no point in making the story more complicated than it was. "So here I am."

"Here you are indeed." Like a statue coming to life, Arthur moved from the spot he had been stuck in and crossed the few yards of space between them. He sat next to Alfred with a heavy breath, and then mumbled, "It _has_ been ten years."

Ten years. Alfred smiled at the idea. It had been so long, and obviously, things were much different. But somehow, sitting next to Arthur felt just as natural as it had in high school. "Hey, better late than never."

"Yes, but…" Arthur looked up, those blank, unseeing eyes surveying the clouds drifting above the building. "Things change."

"Matthew said that too." Suddenly, Alfred threw his hands up. "You know, I don't see why everyone is so hung up on that."

Arthur blinked. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, things _do_ change. I get that. But like, today isn't the same as yesterday, and tomorrow isn't going to be the same as today. Things change all the time." He paused, and Arthur slowly lowered his gaze from the sky to look at him. "That doesn't mean some things can't stay the same, does it Artie?"

Arthur paused as if to consider it, then shrugged. "I see you never learned to stop using that bloody nickname." After he said it, Arthur smiled in that fleeting, barely there, oh so easy to miss way that Alfred remembered so clearly. Suddenly, the weight on Alfred's lungs was lifted.  
Alfred chuckled again. It didn't sounds so wrong this time. "See? Some things never change!"

The moment of clarity ended up being a flash in the pan. "You got rid of that… voice," said Arthur, seemingly to himself. "Before, you always had that… that bloody, blasted…" Another pause, another slow, deep breath. "Twang," he finished quietly.

As soon as the weight on Alfred's lungs lifted, it slammed back down again. It was as if someone had thrown Arthur's words in a blender. He ultimately chose to ignore it, just as he did the pull in his chest. "Yeah, well, that southern boy charm can only get you so far. I managed to get rid of it around the time I got my first contract."

"Contract?"

"With the NFL, yeah."

"That American football nonsense?" If Arthur was surprised, Alfred could not tell. At least his words were the same, spoken in that same accent that once blew Alfred away, even if it was monotone now. "Still?"

Alfred nodded once. "Yep. The quarterback for the New England Patriots, actually." He wondered why he was not smiling anymore, why he felt no pride, why his voice was quiet instead of loud and booming as it always was when he spoke of his career.

"Oh." Arthur lifted his gaze and looked around – at the bare courtyard, at the building in front of them, at the socks on his feet – and then looked back at his hands. "Good for you, then."

And then it hit him, even if Arthur had become so hard to read: he was embarrassed. About his appearance, his initial reaction, being here in general… Alfred could not really pinpoint the cause. But he knew, somewhere underneath this cloak of _something_ Arthur had developed over the years, that he was still as proud as he once was.

Arthur was, after all, still Arthur.

"Hey Arthur," said Alfred, as casually as he could manage. "Remember my first game, the one I made you come to?"

The response came slow. "I do."

"Remember how I was so excited that when I ran out onto the field, I fell right on my face?"

Alfred looked for anything in Arthur's expression – a twitch of the lips, a glimmer in his eyes, an arch in his brow. "I… think," he said finally. In that moment, Alfred swore his eyes flashed for the briefest second. He swore.

"Well, that happened again last week, actually. The video has, like, a million views by now. I don't think the media will ever let me hear the end of it." Alfred could not help but laugh at himself then, a skill he had developed since he was thrust into the public eye. It was a lot easier than it was in high school – but maybe that had more to do with who was in the audience.

Arthur shook his head without changing his expression. "You moron," he said. Alfred was almost relieved by the insult. At least it was familiar. "I always told you, careful, be careful. You never listened."

"I was never very good at that, was I?" Alfred laughed. "I'm still not. Hell, Mattie told me not to come today, and here I am."

Arthur turned to look at him again. "He told you not to come," he repeated.

"Yeah. He worries too much. I obviously know best, so I didn't listen."

"Never listened…" Arthur shook his head once, then twice, threading his fingers together as if his hands were cold. "I bet you're regretting that now."

Alfred narrowed his eyes in genuine confusion. "Regretting… what?"

"Come off it, Alfred." For the first time that day, Arthur almost succeeded in snapping at him like he used to. Almost. "None of us want to be here. No one wants to be near us, either." Arthur said the words emotionlessly, detached, as if he had accepted them quite some time ago. Alfred frowned. "I'm shocked you didn't make a run for it ages ago. All the sound firing must have troubled, in which it seemed."

"Sound firing…" Alfred shook his head, breaking off. It was just something he would have to get used to. "I can't say I expected… everything, but I sure as hell don't regret coming over. I wanted to see you. Besides, I don't even know much about this place yet."

Arthur narrowed his eyes, just enough to be noticeable. "Yet?"

"Yeah. I mean; I have to get going soon, since I have training across the country tomorrow. I don't have too much time today." Alfred took a breath and looked into the sky. "That doesn't mean I plan on staying away too long."

"I don't quite… understand, I'm afraid."

"Well, I was thinking…" Alfred paused, for some reason reconsidering the decision he had already made. Then, he looked back at Arthur, remembered what he had done for him all those year ago, and all doubt was erased. He had waited ten years. He wasn't about to let Arthur get away again, even if parts of him had already slipped through the cracks. "I want to visit you here, you know, when I'm not playing. With any luck, I should be able to get over in a week or so."

Arthur glanced to the side, and was met with Alfred's grin. He paused as if to take it in, and then said, "I'm not sure if that's the best idea."

Alfred's smile did not falter. "I think it's a great idea!"

A pause. Wind whipped through the trees, Arthur rubbed his hands together, and Alfred searched for something familiar on his face. Eventually, Arthur whispered. "Do you? Really?"

"Yes, Artie. Next week." Without thinking, Alfred reached across the bench and covered Arthur's fidgeting hands with his. "I promise."

* * *

 _To be continued..._


	3. Chapter 3

Alfred wiped the sweat from his brow and looked up into the bright, cloudless sky. The heat was nearly unbearable today. The sun scorched his skin, strung his eyes, and left his head spinning after completing a set of suicide drills. Conditioning was killing him; his state of mind was worse.

It had been a day. One day of packing, traveling, little sleep, and vigorous exercise was all that separated Alfred from his afternoon at the hospital. Twenty-four hours, and he was back across the country, right back in the same routine. But Alfred did not _feel_ the same. Instead of focused and fired up, he felt distracted and disoriented, and that had little to do with the temperature soaring into the nineties. He felt far from himself, and he was damn sure Arthur was the one responsible for that.

Leaving Arthur in the courtyard took more effort and will than flipping a tire across the field (which Alfred had not long ago, albeit pretty sloppily). It felt strangely, yet undeniably wrong, and Alfred had not been able to shake the feeling even as he kept going, and going, until he hit New England. It was as if he didn't want to leave until things were back to normal. That must be possible, he told himself about a million times.

As a result, the further away the hospital got, so did his thoughts of this… 'new' Arthur. Alfred thought only of their time in high school the whole way back. Within a hundred miles, he could barely even remember his flat expression, disjointed words, or vacant eyes. None of that had a place in any of his memories.

And the more he thought about what things were like a decade ago, the more confused he got. Alfred just didn't get it. If Arthur was so sick now, supposedly, then why had he seemed perfectly fine back then? Yesterday had to be a misunderstanding, a fluke. It had to-

"Alright boys, line up. Time for another drill."

Alfred looked away from the sky and came back to reality at the sound of his coach's voice. Coach Davie was young for his position, probably barely pushing forty, and his shaggy blond hair paired with the spray of freckles across his nose only made him look younger. Compared to other coaches Alfred had worked with throughout his career, Davie was different in the sense that he almost never got angry or yelled. Through some magic, his kindness only seemed to whip the team into even better shape.

Alfred responded to the direction immediately. He trotted over to the fifty-yard line, sun beating down on his bare shoulders, to join the rest of his team. A shuffle, scrape, and tackle drill was starting, which entailed little more than two players charging at each other. Alfred usually loved watching this sort of thing before actually doing it. It put fire in his veins, hungered him. Today, his gaze, as well as his head, was in the clouds.

Davie blew the whistle, a humid gust of wind sputtered through the air, a few men startled talking loudly to each other a few feet away, and Alfred tried to think. Grunts and the sound of helmets crashing together sliced through his concentration. _Think,_ he told himself through the shouting and whistles and wind. There must be an explanation. Must be a reason. If only he could go back, right now, see him again, ask more questions…

The linebacker next to him swatted his shoulder, and Alfred blinked dazedly against the realization he was being spoken to.

"Jones? You doing okay? Come on, you're up."

"Oh, sorry, yeah! Let's do it!" shouted Alfred as he ran up to the start. God, it was hot. His vision blurred at the edges as he shuffled through the blocks. He tripped a bit, nearly lost his footing, and cursed under his breath as he started again. The simple step patterns felt impossibly complicated today. Midway through, he wiped his clammy palms on his shorts and swallowed with a dry throat. He reminded himself to focus. This shouldn't be so hard. It was just so hot.

Alfred reached the end of the end of the obstacles, and suddenly, chillingly, like ice down his back, a piece of the puzzle flew into place. He had forgotten a few things. Things he could not quite place. Maybe he could, if he was only able to pause for a moment, think, breathe-

The linebacker Alfred had forgotten about rammed into him with the speed, intensity, and possibly weight of a freight train, something he should have been expecting but wasn't. Unprepared and defenseless, his feet were out from under him before he could so much as look down from the sky.

Memory hit as the ground did.

...

Somewhere around the time the leaves turned orange and the wind turned cold, Alfred decided that he and Arthur had better spend some time together beyond lunch and passing periods if, in his own words, their relationship was going to go anywhere. After a surprisingly minimal amount of pleading, Arthur had grudgingly agreed.

It was unseasonably cold for early October, and Alfred had to shove his hands deep into the pockets of his newly acquired varsity jacket to keep them from going numb. Arthur was walking next to him, and of course, he had already bust out a wool trench coat and scarf that he pulled on over his sweater before exiting the school building.

"Man, you look so 'fisticated in that getup," said Alfred as they walked out into the city streets. "Did you leave the top hat at home?"

Arthur's red scarf covered his chin and most of his mouth, but Alfred swore he saw the corner of his mouth twitch into a slight grin. "One, the word is 'sophisticated,' Alfred, and two, I don't think of that as a bad thing." After a moment, he mumbled, "Who in God's name owns a top hat…"

Alfred laughed, and it sounded far too loud in the nearly silent, frigid street. "Never said it was, buddy!"

"Yes, quite." Arthur's nose was already tinged in pink from the cold, as well as his cheeks. "Now, can you please tell me where we're heading? You haven't told me a bloody thing."

"That's probably because I haven't the slightest clue myself." Arthur glared at him, and Alfred threw a hand up. "Hey, don't look at me like that! I was thinking we could explore this big old city."

A pause. "Neither of us knows a thing about it."

"That's why it's called exploring! Come on, it'll be fun! I'll even get you a coffee or something."

"Tea," said Arthur, probably out of instinct. He sighed in a puff of white. "I suppose it isn't a bad idea to get to know the area."

"Great!" Without bothering to think, Alfred grabbed Arthur's hand and pulled him down the grey, quiet street, their location unknown. Alfred babbled excitedly the whole way. It was like an adventure, and they were going at it together. That made him happier than it probably should have.

About an hour later, Alfred had managed to drag Arthur to an alternative music store, a second-hand shop specializing in sports memorabilia, about three alleyways that ended up going absolutely nowhere, and whatever else happened to catch his attention. Arthur had grumbled the entire way – about the cold, about the crowds, about Alfred's pace and tendency to touch everything he looked at – but Alfred got the feeling he was having more fun than he let on. He caught him smiling a couple times, although Arthur would always immediately frown when he saw Alfred looking.

Now, after a good bit of aimless wandering, Alfred found himself in a quaint little café fulfilling his initial promise.

"Good afternoon, ma'am!" said Alfred to the woman working the register. She smiled at him. "Hmm, I'll have a large hot chocolate, a slice of that cake over there, and, uh, a cup of the most British tea you've got!" She shot him a look at that, and Alfred hastily added, "It's for my friend. He should be around, somewhere…"

Once he paid and the woman set off to fill his order, Alfred looked around. Arthur must have wandered off somewhere. They had walked in together, when the grey clouds began to hang oppressively low in the sky and drops of rain dotted the sidewalk. Now he was nowhere in sight.

A minute later, with the drinks in his hands and the cake perched awkwardly on his forearms, Alfred still had no idea where Arthur was, and he set off to find him.

"Arthur?" said Alfred loud enough for a handful of customers to turn and look at him. He smiled at them, adjusted his increasingly uncomfortable hold on their order, and continued through the dining area. "Arthur? Did you run away?"

No answer. Alfred groaned, and for a moment he was sure Arthur _had_ gotten sick of him and ran off. Then, when he was about a second away from giving up, he saw a flash of messy blond hair, wool coat hanging loosely from his shoulders, sitting backwards on a chair by the window. It was pouring now, Alfred noticed.

"There you are!" Alfred called out. Despite his volume, Arthur did not turn around. Brows drawn in confusion, Alfred walked over to him, set their order on the closest table, and tapped him on the shoulder. "Art?"

"Oh, oh," Arthur stuttered, blinking rapidly as if breaking free from a trance. He whispered. "So loud…"

Alfred just looked at him. "Huh?"

"Don't you hear it?" Arthur squinted at the pouring rain, transfixed. "It sounds like… hooves. But I can't see the horses."

Alfred listened closely, and then shrugged. He heard nothing but rain. "I'm afraid I don't hear a thing." Arthur was still staring, lips parted, eyes glossed over. Alfred blinked. "You doing alright, there?"

"Oh, yes. Seems it's nothing. I apologize." Arthur shook his head as if to clear it, blinked a few times, and then turned his chair towards the table. He spoke as he always did. "Good lord, Alfred, do you think these drinks are big enough?"

Alfred laughed raucously and sat beside him, the strange incident already forgotten.

...

"Jones! Alfred, are you okay?"

Alfred opened his eyes, slowly bringing himself away from that cold, grey afternoon, and back to this hot, bright morning. He'd only been on the ground a few seconds. It felt like much longer.

"Yeah," he said, his throat dry and his head throbbing. Before he could pull himself up, Davie was standing over him, hand extended. Alfred took it and clamored to his feet. "Thanks. I zoned out for a minute, there."

Davie pursed his lips. "Why don't you come inside for a second?"

Alfred felt his face warm, and this time it had nothing to do with the scorching sun. "Oh, no, really, I'm-"

"Come on, Alfred."

Alfred resigned to the fact that he had absolutely no choice. He trotted along beside Davie, and the other players immediately started hollering at him. "Oh, screw you guys!" shouted Alfred over his shoulder, flashing his middle finger jokingly.

"Keep going with those drills, boys." Davie attempted to sound firm, but the side of his mouth twitched into a grin. He patted Alfred once on the back. "I just want to talk to you real quick."

The locker room was empty, silent, and cool. It did nothing to cool Alfred's burning skin. He was embarrassed, not to mention mad at himself. He spoke about a second after Davie closed the door. "Look, Coach, I'm sorry. I'm just having an off day."

"I can tell." Davie did not sound angry, or even mildly irritated. If anything, he sounded confused, if not concerned. "Why is that?"

Alfred wasn't sure if he could answer that. Maybe he just didn't want to. Fortunately for him, the question ended up being rhetorical.

"Are you eating how you're supposed to?"

Alfred nodded firmly. "Yes, coach."

"Getting enough fluids? It's a hot one today."

"Uh-huh!" Alfred waved his water bottle in the air for emphasis. Davie raised an eyebrow at him, and Alfred rushed into what he hoped was a distraction. "Pretty dang hot for June, ain't it? Feels like a sauna out there."

"Alfred."

"Yeah?"

"That accent of yours is coming back."

Alfred shut his eyes and exhaled sharply through his nose. Damn it. If he had one tell, that stupid twang was it. "I guess I'm a little preoccupied," he said carefully.

"What's up, sport?" Davie clapped a hand on Alfred's shoulder; summoning that familiar fatherly tone Alfred had never, ever heard from any other coach. It relaxed him, a little. "I'm here to help."

So, Alfred took a breath, and told him. About finding the yearbook, about missing his old best friend, about searching the Internet only to come about with nothing. About talking to his brother and getting the biggest bombshell of his life. Davie raised an eyebrow but kept silent, and Alfred went on to explain how that day at the hospital had gone. He explained Arthur's strange words, his dead eyes, his diagnosis. But more than anything, Alfred explained to him that the old Arthur was in there, somewhere. Maybe he was only reminding himself.

After Alfred fell silent, Davie gave a low whistle. "Damn. No wonder you're out of it."

"My apologies, sir," said Alfred immediately. He might have a reason for preforming badly, but if there was one thing he couldn't stand, it was excuses. "I shouldn't let it get in the way."

"That's alright, Al. I understand." Davie crossed his arms. "When are you planning on going back there?"

"Next week, I'm hoping."

Davie nodded, looking down momentarily. He regarded Alfred with raised eyebrows. "How will that work when the season starts?"

Alfred narrowed his eyes, a bit taken aback. "That isn't until September."

"Yeah, but I'm thinking you'll want to keep on seeing this guy."

That caused Alfred to take a step back. People had always told him he wasn't very good at thinking ahead, and only now was he starting to believe them. Would he be going to see Arthur in September? Then Alfred realized – in all honestly, no matter if it was unrealistic or not, he was hoping Arthur would be out by then. He simply said, "I'll cross that bridge when I come to it."

"Alright. In the mean time, let's pick it up." Davie swatted Alfred on the lower back. "Get out there and give me four laps."

Alfred nodded swiftly and dashed out onto the field as quickly as he could. He would be lying if he said Arthur wasn't on his mind for the rest of the day, but right now, there were other things to worry about.

It would be next week in no time.

.

The bloody light kept flashing.

That was all Arthur could think as he sat in Dr. William's office for the millionth time, listening to questions he heard just as frequently. The florescent light above their heads was flickering, hissing, whispering to him in a language he understood but didn't want to. Arthur can only concentrate on that blasted light. The office was quiet, but for him, it was loud. It was suffocating.

"Arthur?" Matthew nearly whispered. Arthur forced himself to hear, to look. "How are you feeling today?"

Arthur tightened his hands into fists at his knees, thinking. The static always made it difficult. Today was… bearable, he supposed. He did not hear the clopping as much as he did other days. More importantly, _it_ was under control, for now. "Quite alright," he said eventually. The light flickered, Arthur's eyes burned. He squinted.

"Just alright?"

"I'm just-" There it was again. Arthur turned his head sharply, but as soon as he looked, it was gone. It was pink this time. Then he heard something, faint and murmuring. He ignored it. "I'm just fine, thank you."

"How are your hallucinations? Better, worse?"

Arthur pursed his lips. He hated that word, 'hallucinations.' It was… a fair term, he supposed, but hearing it again and again only reminded him that the world he lived in was fake. The mumbling and pounding and flashes of color in his vision were as real to Arthur as the sky above him. They were real enough to force away his sanity and toss him in this dump, anyway. But no one else could see that.

 _But maybe,_ said a small, hissing, familiar voice, _everyone else is just wrong._ _Wrong about us. Wrong. Wrong…_

"Hard to tell," he mumbled finally.

"Alright. We'll keep going with the current medication regimen, then. You're not having any problems with side effects, right?"

The light flickered again, static hissed through the air and clawed at Arthur's ears, demonic, unrelenting. _Poison,_ they said, _the pills are poison._ Arthur bit his lip, shook his head. His skin burned. His vision blurred. The light was burning him now. _Poison._

Matthew tilted his head. "Arthur?"

Arthur could not stop himself from asking, "What will it do to me?"

"Oh." Matthew looked a bit taken aback, but explained anyway. "Well, what you've been taking is an antipsychotic, as I told you when they were first prescribed. It's called risperidone. What it does is intervene in nerve communication in the brain, thus lessening your symptoms." Matthew smiled. "Does that make sense?"

Arthur knew Matthew had explained this to him before, and it was a perfectly logical explanation, but…

 _He's lying. Lying to you. Lying._ Arthur took a deep, shaking breath. He tried to focus on the very light that was driving him mad. No, no… _Lying. Poison. Don't take it. Don't listen. Stupid. Worthless. Poison._ There it was again, pink, green, the floor was moving. Pounding. _They're coming. They're watching._

"Arthur? Are you alright?"

Arthur wrapped his shaking hands together. "Yes," he said, though he could barely hear himself. "Can you… can you hear that?"

Matthew paused, looked down, and scribbled something on his clipboard. More lies that made him look crazy, Arthur was positive. "I'm not sure what you mean," said Matthew finally. "Can you describe this sound to me?"

 _He's making that noise. He's lying. Lying. Don't listen. Don't look._

"Never mind. It's… it's gone." Arthur cleared his throat and wrung his hands together once more. It was approaching him, faster, faster, louder… "Must have been the air conditioning."

 _You filthy liar,_ that blasted light hissed between flashes. Arthur shot a glare at the ceiling. "Not today," he breathed, barely audible even to himself.

"Okay," said Matthew slowly. At least he hadn't heard him. "I think we can move on, then. There's one thing I've been really meaning to ask you."

Arthur blinked a few times and nodded, as if he was not being blinded, deafened, attacked from all angles. He wanted to believe Matthew. Wanted to trust him. For a split second, everything was quiet. Relief washed into Arthur like a tidal wave.

"Alfred showing up yesterday must have been quite a shock. Can you tell me how you feel about all of that?"

Twice as quickly as it stopped, it started against full force. Too many voices assaulted Arthur at once. He could not tell them apart. The light flashed, and the beams were coming at him, into his mind, reading his thoughts and sending them… out. Out where? He wasn't sure. Something was coming. He turned his head and saw nothing, the voices picked up. Arthur wanted to run. He wanted to scream.

Instead, he forced out, "It was certainly… shocking."

Maybe he had wanted Alfred to come. All those years ago, he had certainly wanted…

A voice cut the thought off before it could get too far. _He brought him here. Spying on you._

Matthew nodded. "I bet. Any thoughts beyond that?"

The voices got louder, more insistent, and Arthur finally gave in and believed them. He nearly shouted, "You brought him here. I know you did."

"No, Arthur, I didn't." Matthew spoke firmly, he gaze on Arthur solid and unmoving, just as he responded at least a hundred times before. "Alfred may be my brother, but he came here all on his own."

"You must have told him." Arthur could not stop now. He was on autopilot. "How else would he have found me?"

Matthew faltered. He glanced briefly at his hands before looking back at Arthur, his brows furrowed and his eyes less certain. "Well… Alfred was already looking for you."

Arthur blinked, balked. The fog cleared for a moment. If Alfred had been looking for him, after all this time, even, perhaps-

 _Don't be stupid._

Arthur flinched in pain. Matthew was speaking again, maybe he had never stopped, maybe he had never been speaking to begin with. The hissing started again. The light blinked again. Something flickered in an out of view. Arthur could no longer tell any of it apart.

"…When he asked me questions, I answered them. That's really all you need to know."

 _LIAR. LIAR._

"No! He must have wanted something, he…" The sound was right next to Arthur now. He could barely hear anything over it – Matthew, himself, even that god forsaken light – it all got lost in the bloody clopping. Arthur looked to one side, saw nothing, looked to the other, saw nothing… where was it?

Matthew was speaking again. "Alfred only wanted…"

Arthur exploded. "For the love of Christ, where is it?"

A pause. Matthew blinked, perhaps a bit taken aback, but not as much as he should be. "Where is what, Arthur?"

"The bloody, blasted…" Arthur lifted his hands to his ears, but it blocked nothing out. "The UNICORN! I know it's here! It would help me if I ever bloody found it!"

"Arthur, remember what I told you," said Matthew calmly, far, far, too calmly. How could he whisper when everything else was screaming? "Stop and assess. Try to list five things you can see, four things you can hear…"

"To hell with that rubbish! All I hear is the bloody CLOPPING!"

"Arthur, really, I can't hear anything unusual."

Arthur squeezed his eyes shut, raised his hands to his head. "You're LYING!"

The same force drove all of this, Arthur was certain. Whatever was causing Matthew to lie to him, to paint him as crazy, must have been throwing these… things, into his world, from the voices to the lights to the strange flash of green that occasionally flew across his field of vision. It was all connected, all coming after him, all keeping his saving grace away. Alfred's sudden appearance was only part of the scheme.

"Arthur, I'm going to need you to stay with me…"

"No! You brought him here! You brought _all of this_ here! I don't trust you!"

 _Not safe. Not safe. Get away._

Arthur couldn't take it anymore. It was too much. It was all suddenly too much. He felt exposed, vulnerable, attacked, the walls were closing in, and that light was threatening to engulf him. Something was laughing at him; something else was screaming in his ear. So Arthur did all he could think to do. He got up and ran.

Arthur did not have a destination. He just needed to get away, away, away, until this constant internal hell quieted down enough to breathe through. The lobby passed by in a blur, and before Arthur knew it, he was outside. He was in the same courtyard he had met Alfred in just yesterday.

The clouds were too low in the sky, only getting lower, threatening. It must have meant they were outside now, Arthur decided immediately. There truly was no escape. It was coming. His pulse grew painful, his head light.

"Leave me alone," Arthur first whispered, and then screamed, "Leave me alone!"

 _You can't ignore us, Arthur._

The stone walkway was rough beneath Arthur's knees. He all but folded himself in half, hands over his ears, and gasped for air he wasn't sure existed. He heard something approaching, even felt it, but there was simply no energy left to stand again. The clopping was gone. This was the end. Arthur was completely certain this was the end. At this point, he wanted it to be.

 _Why now,_ a voice whispered. Arthur took too long to realize the voice was finally his own. _Why this. Why me._ As always, he had far more questions than answers. Nothing happened. He kept waiting.

 _We're coming. Coming for you._

A pause.

 _Not yet._

The air was back. Arthur bit down on his lip, his head nearly touching his knees and his fingernails leaving imprints on his skull. He was bracing himself, always bracing himself for something that never came but always felt close. A moment of peace was all he wanted. It was all he wanted since he was eighteen, and ten years later he still didn't have it. Nothing had changed.

Nothing ever changed.

* * *

 _To be continued..._


	4. Chapter 4

_So._

 _It's been a year. An actual, full twelve months, and now here I am, again. I don't know how many of my readers are still wandering around the fandom, or if I have any readers at all anymore. I definitely would not blame anyone for getting tired of waiting. To preface this, this is a chapter that was written, appropriately, a year ago. I never got around to publishing what I already had before my writer's block completely destroyed my motivation to even upload. But today I was talking to my friend about my "old" stories, and I realized how much I miss it. I miss everything about writing, about fanfiction, about my readers and about these characters. Now, I can't make any promises. I'm in college now and I have a LOT going on as it is. But... I think I want to give it a try again, or at the very least release what I have done._

 _Hello again. And Enjoy._

* * *

Arthur was safe, for now.

It took a surprisingly short amount of time for the murmuring to quiet down, the grey clouds overhead to be broken up by light, and the pleasant, faint _clop, clop, clop_ to return. It wasn't perfect, and it never was, but it was manageable. That was all Arthur could reasonably hope for.

He had quickly collected himself once the episode had passed, as it was hardly gentlemanly to stay squatting on the ground like some kind of animal, and stationed himself on a bench near the edge of the garden. The inside of the hospital was still… too much. Arthur was safe and there was no reason to risk it.

Things were at complete peace for a while. Some time passed before Arthur heard anything at all, something not quite like clopping, but more like… footsteps. Then there was no more peace. They were approaching quickly, too quickly. Cold sweat bloomed on the back of his neck. He braced himself to run.

But then Arthur looked up and saw that the thing approaching him was not _it,_ but it was, in fact, Matthew. Arthur quickly collected himself, smoothing down his shirt and crossing one leg neatly over the other. The picture of sanity. "Hello, Dr. Williams," he said as if nothing had happened.

But of course, Matthew was not so easily fooled. "Feeling better, Arthur?"

"Yes, yes," muttered Arthur, lifting a hand dismissively. He turned his head to hide his burning face. "I just needed some air, it seems." He paused, debating, and then finished in a low voice. "I apologize for all of that."

"No need to be sorry. I'm just glad it passed." Matthew walked to the bench and sat down next to him. "Did you want to talk about it?"

Arthur wondered what he could say. His episodes were like a bad dream – the details were impossible to remember, but the effects were impossible to shake. He felt a shudder of panic tingle up his spine, across his skin, into his mind. Arthur bit his lip. "I'd rather we didn't."

Matthew nodded. "Alright."

Arthur let out a silent sigh of relief. One thing he liked about Matthew, he never pushed. It definitely made things easier.

"Hey, Arthur? Did Alfred tell you he's planning on coming back next week?"

Arthur's relief shattered and fell to his feet, right along with his stomach. He had completely forgotten. His world had been flipped upside down, and after all this nonsense, it had slipped his mind. Now it was all coming back, as strong as a punch to the gut.

"He did," he said. A quiet, menacing hiss followed. Arthur whispered. "Shut up."

Matthew tilted his head. "I'm sorry?"

"Nothing, nothing," said Arthur loudly, perhaps too loudly, in an attempt to drown out all the other noises congregating around him. "He's coming on his own this time?" It was not as much of a question as it was a personal reassurance.

"Yes. Just like he did the first time," said Matthew firmly. Arthur clung to the words. "Unless you don't want him to."

Arthur looked up. "Pardon?"

"I was meaning to ask you… do you want me to call him? I don't want to put you through any unnecessary stress."

 _Yes,_ a voice screamed. _Keep him away._ Arthur wasn't sure where this thought was coming from, whether it was embarrassment or distrust or something else entirely. But he knew _it_ was the one screaming, plotting, waiting, and Alfred must have something to do with it.

But for once, Arthur forced himself to ignore it. "That's alright," he said, this voice finally his own. "He's already made travel plans, I bet. No sense in forcing him to cancel."

Matthew smiled, looking almost relieved. "Alright, then. I bet he'll be happy to see you." He stood. "I'm going to head back inside. Lunch is starting soon. Think you can join us?"

"Sure," said Arthur. But when he looked towards the building, towards confinement and walls and noise, he felt suddenly glued to his seat. "Just give me a few moments."

Matthew nodded, turned, and walked inside. Arthur waited until he disappeared behind the door, then let out a deep sigh. First the inside of the hospital, then Alfred, eventually the outside world… all of it seemed impossible. By now, his comfort zone was the size of a pinhole. He looked to the wind blowing through the trees in an attempt to clear his mind.

Arthur accomplished the opposite.

* * *

This day was even more miserable than miserable as the last. The sky was grey, the air cold, and rain was pouring down in buckets. On top of the weather, Arthur had a fever of over a hundred. _Figures,_ he thought, burrowing himself deeper in his little nest of pillows and blankets. He had given into Alfred, and now he was paying the price. This flu almost felt deserved.

Everything felt… fuzzy, Arthur noticed. Every sound was louder, more threatening. He felt a certain disconnect from the world around him. Arthur was floating, too hot and too cold, slightly nervous, entirely confused. His mind was a mess and his thoughts were scrambled. It was surreal, but he chalked it up to the fever. Illness was always a right pain in the ass.

So Arthur continued to float along in his sea of confusion, tangled in his bed sheets, somewhere between awake and asleep. His eyes were shut, his head throbbing. The bed seemed to spin. Then, out of nowhere, there was pounding. Loud, relentless pounding followed by intermittent rings, invading Arthur's ears and attacking his mind. Then, there was silence… for about a second. Then it started again.

For a moment after Arthur opened his eyes, he had no idea where he was. A moment passed, and the pounding, he realized, was in fact coming from the front of the house. Someone was knocking at the door, and by the sound of it, they had no intention of stopping.

"Go away," Arthur murmured, as if this person would hear him. As if to respond, the knocking grew more insistent. Arthur groaned. "Bloody hell…" After what felt like a year, he managed to pull himself out of bed, drag himself down the hall, and yank the blasted door open.

A voice hit him before the chilled air even did. "Art, buddy! You were gone today! I was real worried, I tell you what!"

It took Arthur a moment to register that this booming voice belonged to Alfred. It hardly surprised him. Really, he should have seen this coming.

Alfred's grin turned to more of a smirk. "Nice pants."

Arthur looked down, only then realizing he was still in his unicorn print pajama pants. "Shut up!" he snapped. At the same time, a chill shot across his skin and a jab of pain poked at his skull. He groaned. "I'm sick," he said, a bit more miserably than he intended. Then, something clicked. "Wait, how did you find my house?"

"I asked one of the nice ladies at the office." Alfred swung the backpack he was wearing around, fumbled to unzip it, and procured a mess of papers. "They gave me your schedule, too! I got your work for ya." He beamed at that, looking rather proud of himself.

"That's… oh." Arthur's first instinct was to be disturbed by this, but looking at Alfred's wide grin, bright eyes, and flushed face, it proved hardly possible. He looked as if he had run all the way from school. Arthur fought back a smile when he realized he probably had. "Well, thank you," he said, snatching the papers.

Arthur really expected that to be the end of it. But Alfred did not move, and only kept talking. "Gee, was it the rain that did it?"

"I… believe so." Arthur was suddenly hit by a wave of vertigo, and half-stumbled, half-fell against the doorframe. "Oh, bullocks."

By the alarm and volume of Alfred's voice, an onlooker would think Arthur had just gone into cardiac arrest. "Lord have mercy! Art, bud, are you okay?"

"Yes, Alfred, I'm-"

Arthur was not allowed to finish. "Gosh, it's worse then I thought!" Alfred's expression turned determined. "That tears it. I suppose I'm gonna have to take care of you."

A warm flush bloomed on the back of Arthur's neck, and he doubted that had anything to do with his temperature. "That really isn't necessary."

But almost before he finished the sentence, Alfred was in his house, kicking off his shoes and babbling again. "Don't worry, Art! The hero is here to save the day!"

Arthur sighed. Alfred had taken to calling himself 'the hero' ever since one of his teammates stuck him with the nickname after a – rather impressive, Arthur had to admit – football game, and not a day passed where Alfred didn't remind him of it. "I wasn't worried," he said, well aware the words were landing on deaf ears.

"Have no fear!" Alfred cried out anyway. He threw his arm around Arthur's shoulders and marched the both of them forward, which forced Arthur to fight for his balance. "Which way is your bedroom, buddy? Lead the way!"

At this point, Arthur had no choice but to resign. "That way." He raised a weary hand and pointed down the hall.

Alfred held Arthur as securely as a football as he all but carried him to his room. At that point, Arthur was far too exhausted to object.

The afternoon passed in a haze. Water that could not cool him down, food he could not taste, reassurances from Alfred he scarcely heard. Arthur had no idea what his temperature was. He guessed his fever had spiked. His world spun, his mind blurred, and everything got lost in a fog. When Alfred began speaking to him again, he was only partially sure it was not a dream.

"You need anything, Arthur? Some more soup, maybe?"

Even though the soup Alfred had fixed was, admittedly, far better than what Arthur had attempted earlier, his stomach turned at the thought of eating. "No."

"How about some water?"

"No," Arthur groaned again. Chills shot through him like ice in his veins, needles the poked at his skin, headless to the pile of blankets draped across him. In the moment of fever-induced madness, he could think of only one thing he wanted. "Unicorn."

"Beg pardon?"

"The stuffed unicorn." Arthur lifted a hand and waved to the right. At least, he thought he did. "Closet. In the closet."

A pause. "Oh. Alrighty then."

If Alfred was amused, Arthur couldn't tell. In fact he couldn't even tell what time of day it was. A series of footsteps followed, and then a bit of shuffling, and before Arthur even understood what he had asked for, something soft and pink landed on his chest.

"That's real cute," said Alfred from… somewhere in the room. "Where'd you get it?"

Arthur blinked away the stars in his eyes, and the thing in front of him came into focus. "Oh," he said, too dizzy, too out of focus to be embarrassed. "Alistair."

The end of the bed dipped downward. "Your oldest brother?"

Arthur clutched the stuffed toy in both his hands and lifted it above his head, then began speaking before he even realized it. "Yes. He gave this to me when I was… young. Younger. I think I was five." This was such a private, childish story, yet the words were coming so easily. "He said, 'this will protect you, Arthur, no matter what.'" He laughed lighter at the silly, ancient sentiment, even though his throat hurt. "Seems I never got rid of it."

"Well, why would ya?" Alfred reached out and flickered the unicorn's tail, a stitch of amusement in his eyes that didn't read as mocking. "Mattie's given me a few things, and I would never get rid of 'em."

Arthur dropped the unicorn to the side and propped himself up on his elbows. "Mattie?"

"Yeah, my brother Matthew. You haven't met him yet." Alfred looked towards the window. "He's real smart. Kind of wallflower, though."

"He sounds… nice." Arthur had to wonder why Alfred had never mentioned this before, but he was in no state to ponder it too much. Growing dizzy again, he flopped back down against the mattress. "I think I'm going to try to sleep."

"Gotcha. I guess I'll go see how The Patriots are doing." Alfred turned towards the door, but almost immediately turned back. "Feeling any better yet?"

Arthur mused over that for a moment. He still felt as if a bus had run him over, but at least he was coherent. "I… suppose."

"Good to hear." Alfred gave a short laugh. "I guess that unicorn thingy really does protect you, huh?"

Arthur absently pulled the unicorn to his side, hopefully inconspicuously. Alistair had actually given it to him when he was sick. As silly as it was, the ridiculous toy really did make him feel better, even now. He ran his hand over the felt and shrugged. "Maybe it does."

* * *

The week passed far too quickly for Arthur's liking. Which was quite the oddity, actually, considering every other week he had spent here passed like each hour was twice as long as it ought to be. But this time, seven days had passed before he realized it.

And so Arthur was left to wait, and wait, which such tension that the barrel of a gun might as well been pressed to his temple, until he looked the window saw the gaudiest red, white, and blue car he had ever seen in his life pull into a space near the entrance. He had never seen that car before, but he could easily assume it was Alfred's. No one else would own such a thing.

Matthew entered the room then, so quickly it was as if Alfred's arrival was controlling him… Arthur pushed the idea from his head.

"Alfred is here. He just called me," he said.

 _Liar…_ "Oh." Arthur wondered what would make him appear the most put together – annoyance, joy, nervousness, even? He'd lost his social perception over the months, and he couldn't find an answer. "Seems… the flag he has, decorated on the headlights beyond us."

Matthew's expression fell blank, but a moment later he shook his head with jolt and blinked a few times. "Oh, his car. Pretty ridiculous, huh? That's Alfred for you." He smiled too gently. "Deep breaths, Arthur."

Arthur hesitated. "Of course," he said, as if reminding him was simply unnecessary. Invisible hands pulled at the stings attached to his heart, forcing it to hammer and pound against his ribs.

"I suppose I'll send him in, then."

Before Arthur could even look up, Matthew was gone. Snatched away, a voice insisted, or perhaps hiding like a demon in the shadows. _It_ was still pulling the strings. Arthur could do nothing but ignore it, and wait.

The footsteps came first. Even those had character, Arthur noticed through his partial panic, like a heartbeat or a voice against the floorboards. He kept his gaze low and saw the floor shake, warp with every step. What should have been nearly inaudible tapping was an earthquake in his ears. The voice was like a warning siren, shrieking over the hills and penetrating windows and walls to warn civilians of the imminent danger.

"Hey, Artie! How ya doing, buddy?"

Arthur looked up slowly, like a weight was tied to his neck. Alfred was wearing the same jacket as before, the same proud stance as before, and the same grin as before… even if it did seem suspiciously more careful. Arthur looked down again. "Afternoon, Alfred."

"Afternoon!"

Then there was a silence that not even Alfred could fill. Arthur's voice was shot, stolen, and he could not tell who had taken it. Alfred was still smiling; it seemed inappropriate. The pause lasted a moment but felt like a year. Alfred broke it, of course, in a way that made it seem as though it never existed.

"Hey, I brought you a little something." Before Arthur could understand, Alfred brought his hand from behind his back and presented him with something. Arthur stared, blinked. No, how on earth could he have remembered… "You had that thing for unicorns, right?"

"Oh, Alfred, good lord!" A stuffed unicorn. Alfred had actually brought him a stuffed unicorn. Though there was no one around, Arthur felt a flush rise up the back of his neck as he snatched it away. "That… was years ago." Despite his words, Arthur looked down at the doll and gave it a small squeeze. Something almost like comfort, something familiar, washed over him.

Alfred laughed, loud and boundless as always. "Come on, Art, you act like it's been a trillion years or something!"

Was it all that much of an exaggeration, really? Arthur could barely remember high school, or his early twenties, or last spring – he could not remember anything beyond these white walls, white pills handed to him in white cups, or white hissing static in his head and in his words. Everything he had lived through felt like nothing more than a forgotten dream.

Lost in deep thought, Arthur forgot to say anything, and only remembered Alfred was in front of him when he spoke again.

"So, uh, nice set up you got here! TV and everything, huh? It's kind of like a hotel!" Arthur just looked at him, and Alfred delved directly into his next thought. "Got any friends here? Want to introduce me?"

Arthur wanted to smile at that, if only because of the sheer absurdity, but couldn't manage it. "No friends," he said low, as he didn't know who was listening. "Only…" He hesitated, looked down at his hands, and then trailed off completely as the walls spoke his name.

 _We don't like that at all, Arthur._

Arthur froze. It was watching, it knew, and it was after him again. He had a target on his back and it all spun back on this stupid toy. Of course it would hate something that resembled… Something new spoke, frantic and firm.

 _Get rid of it. Now. Unsafe._

"What was that?" When he was not met with an answer, Alfred waved a hand in front of Arthur's face. "Doing okay, man?"

Arthur flinched, looked away. The darkness was closing in again, it knew, it was coming… Arthur's hands burned in fear around the fabric. He should not have something like this out in the open. "Hold on, hold on…" Leaving only that, he rushed away.

It took only moments to reach his room, to figure a plan, to silence the warning voices whispering to him. Arthur shoved the unicorn between the bedframe and the wall. "There," he muttered, as he pushed those lifeless eyes out of his sight, out of _anyone's_ sight. He glared at the ceiling. "There, happy now?"

Silence.

Satisfied, Arthur stood, blinked away the static, and walked back to Alfred with an exasperated, forced expression.

Alfred did not seem to have moved. He was rooted there, his expression controlled, his raised eyebrow calculated. "Dude, is something going on?"

"Preposterous," scoffed Arthur. "I was only putting that silly thing away."

"…Oh." Alfred cleared his throat, blinked away the trepidation in his eyes, and grinned just as obnoxiously as he had before. "So, what do you want to do, buddy? We could watch TV, or… ooh! I have some clips from my games on my phone! Or…"

"Alfred."

"Oh, yeah?"

"I think I would just like to sit outside."

"Oh." Alfred sounded a bit defeated, but his smile snapped back into its rightful place just as quickly as it disappeared. "Yeah, that's cool! Let's go!"

Alfred grabbed Arthur's hand and ran out to the courtyard the way Arthur would imagine he ran out to the field.

When he got outside, Arthur looked down at the stone-covered ground and flinched. It was too short a time since he'd fallen to his knees in this very spot. He blinked, shook his head lightly, and lifted his gaze to look at Alfred again. He was standing with his hands in his jacket pockets, smiling up at the sun as if he'd never seen it before.

"Long time since I've seen this place, huh?" Alfred laughed… Arthur had forgotten just how unmistakable that laugh was. "How has this week been treating ya?"

Arthur glanced down for a second more. He was hit with intrusive memory – the paranoia, the voices, the bloody _clopping…_ "You know," he muttered, making his way to a bench. "Nothing out of the ordinary."

Alfred sat down beside him. "Cool. I had practice all week. Got tackled a few times, ran a few dozen miles, made some hella amazing catches, you know… nothing out of the ordinary." There was that cheeky grin again. Arthur just looked at him.

"Always the humble one, aren't you, Alfred?"

"You bet!" A master of sarcasm, the boy was. "Anyway, I was meaning to ask, you're getting out of here soon right?"

Arthur blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

"I mean, you've been in here for what, a month or something?"

"Well… two, actually, but-"

Alfred did not even allow him to finish. It was as if he simply didn't want to hear it. "Yeah, see? That's probably enough time." His grin seemed a little disingenuous now. "Aren't you sick of this place?"

The words were so unexpected, so downright absurd that Arthur was rendered speechless. As if this was a matter of being 'sick of this place.' As if he had a choice. As if he ever did. He would like to think he could just up and walk out of here whenever he so pleased, and part of him believed that. But _it_ was watching, always watching, even if _it_ was not supposed to exist. Arthur had far more questions than answers and none of them lead to leaving. He was in chains.

But, just like _it,_ they were chains no one else could see. "Maybe," Arthur said low. He cleared his throat. "You said you had something on your phone?"

"Yeah, totally!" His inquisitions seemingly forgotten, Alfred reached into his pocket and pulled out what was just about the largest phone Arthur had ever seen. It had an American flag case on it that Arthur was half sure to be made up of diamonds. "I scored the most epic touchdown the other week! You have to see!"

Well, at least he was distracted. It never did take much.

As expected, Arthur had no idea what was going on in any of the five videos Alfred showed him. He hadn't the slightest clue what a 'first down,' 'linebacker,' or even a 'fumble' was. The bright colors were irritating and the loud noises made him anxious. However, what he did understand was Alfred's enthusiasm. How he jabbed at the screen whenever his numbered jersey, thirteen, was visible. How he tried to explain the plays, even if Arthur was hopelessly lost. How he beamed and cheered as if all of it was new to him.

"See, dude?" said Alfred as he turned the phone off. Arthur blinked back into awareness. "Isn't that sweet?"

"I guess so," said Arthur. He was being honest… though he wasn't exactly referencing the actual videos. "You must be quite passionate about this whole thing."

"You bet!" Alfred shoved the ridiculous phone back into his pocket. "Everyone needs a reason to get out of bed in the morning, you know?"

Arthur crossed his legs, uncrossed, and then crossed them again. The wind in the trees said something to him. He ignored it, just as he did the strange pang of pain in his chest. "Of course."

If Arthur's mood drop was visible, Alfred didn't seem to notice. He was still smiling. In spite of himself, Arthur could not help but watch him do it. He was not used to seeing this kind of passion anymore. The closest he got from people around here was mania, senseless babbling, or, on occasion, violent rage. Alfred radiated hope and joy – even here. Though he would never admit it, Arthur had always admired that about him.

And by God, had he missed it.

Arthur wished he could tell him that. But something, deep down within him, insisted it would be a very bad idea. And Arthur listened. He always seemed to listen.

In fact, he was listening so intently to that internal voice that he scarcely heard his name being called, though that may have had far more to do with the volume. "Arthur? Group starts in about ten minutes. Just letting you know."

And just like that, the illusion was shattering. "Fantastic," muttered Arthur nearly inaudibly.

"Hey, bro!" said Alfred loudly, waving at Matthew with large swooping motions. "Artie will be in in a second. Can you give us a minute?"

From the open door, Matthew shot them a knowing glance paired with a smile that could almost be called patronizing. "Sure, Al."

When Matthew was out of sight, Alfred gave a low whistle. "They sure are strict around here, huh?"

Arthur had to force back the very real urge to laugh. Alfred didn't know the half of it. "Quite," he said anyway, as anything else wouldn't have been very gentlemanly.

"Hey," Alfred shrugged, "It ain't forever."

Again, Arthur had to fight back a laugh… though this one was mirthless. But again, all he said was, "Of course."

Then Alfred stood up, and Arthur had no choice but to stand up with him. He wondered if any time had truly passed at all. What might have been half an hour felt like thirty seconds, or thirty years. He couldn't quite be sure. One thing however, he could be sure about – everything was quiet. The wind simply sounded like wind. No hooves struck the stone; no voices fell hot against his neck, no words popped in his thoughts like popcorn kernels. It was simply… quiet.

Perhaps Alfred's presence was just too loud to overwrite. It always had been, after all.

"You gonna be alright, buddy?" said Alfred, a bit too quietly considering Arthur's thoughts. He sauntered towards the entrance, much slower than what was strictly necessary, and even then Arthur lagged a bit behind. "You know I'll be back in a week."

"I'll be just fine, thank you." Arthur crossed his arms. "I've gotten along… just fine, lately, before you came back around." _For the last ten years._ Momentarily, Arthur wondered if his memory was again deceiving him. Ten years might have passed, but he suddenly could not remember a single moment of them.

"Guess you have, haven't you?" Alfred almost laughed. Then that smile simply broke to pieces and fell, like a house held up by centimeter-thick pillars. "You know, Artie…"

"Arthur."

"Arthur," Alfred quickly corrected himself. "I missed you a lot. Over the years, I mean. I've been busy and everything, but… you never really forget your best friend."

"Is that so?" Arthur hated that he resonated with the cheesy sentiment. And what he hated even more, more than anything that had happened since Alfred barreled back into his life, was that he was beginning to feel just as he did in high school. And he still didn't know what that meant or how to describe it.

"Did you miss me?"

A pause. The wordless wind blew through the trees again, and Arthur had no other place to look than Alfred. A few feet separated them. He wasn't sure what to do with the space. Then, finally, with the same amount of determination it would take to deliver a speech, Arthur said, "Yes, Alfred, I did."

Alfred's eyes widened in shock – so much shock it probably should have been insulting. "Really?"

Arthur answered unflinchingly. "I'm not heartless."

Shock quickly turned to raw, painfully obvious hurt. "I never thought you were…"

"And I never thought you did. Glad we cleared that up." Arthur suddenly went from being reluctant to see Alfred leave to desperately wishing he would. This conversation was getting too personal, the stares too intense. He strode forward, just about brushing Alfred's shoulder in his near job towards the building. "Well, like Matthew said, I have things to do now. Goodbye, Alfred."

"Arthur, wait."

Arthur would have been long gone if it wasn't for Alfred's strong hand on his shoulder. A strange zing of panic shot through his skin, but Arthur still didn't pull away. "Was is it?"

"I missed you," said Alfred again. "I missed you a whole lot."

Arthur stared at him. His blue eyes screamed sincerity, but he could not help but feel there was something behind them. Behind everything. "You said that already."

"But do you understand?"

Arthur's patience snapped like a worn rubber band. "Alfred, I'm _sick,_ not incompetent!"

Silence. The words hung in the air long enough for Arthur to regret them, to feel them pierce into his skin like needles. Alfred still had not released his shoulder.

"I was never too good with words," said Alfred after some time. "But you know what I was saying before, about needing something to get you out of bed in the morning?"

Arthur nodded.

"It's not always the same thing." Alfred's face was flushed, but he would not move his gaze. He ran his thumb in an absent circle on Arthur's shoulder. "Like, football isn't _always_ what keeps me going. Sometimes, it's… what I'm going to have for lunch, or the new Iron Man movie, or…" He trailed off and took a breath; visibly giving up on finishing that sentence, then lightly shook his head. "Artie…Arthur. Today it was you. And it isn't the first time."

Arthur does not balk, or blush, or back up, as one would expect him to. No… Arthur just sighed. Oh, Alfred. Sweet, naïve, forever over-the-top Alfred. He was just as he remembered him. "Isn't this a bit dramatic?"

Alfred immediately shook his head – there was nothing over the top or naïve about that. Neither was the way he said, "No. I mean it."

"Alfred…"

"I mean it!" he repeated firmly, loudly, almost childishly so. Then, too quietly, "I'll get you out of here. I promise."

It managed to happen too quickly and too slowly at the same time. As if desperate to get a point across after words had failed him, Alfred simply… _grabbed_ Arthur in a rushed, jumbled manner. There was no warning, just action. Arthur did not even have time to react. Then Alfred was suddenly kissing him and suddenly reality converged with fantasy, because Arthur was sure he had thought about this at one point or another, but suddenly it was _happening,_ and he didn't know what had prompted it, or what to do, or how to breathe.

How was he meant to feel about this? Maybe ten years ago, Arthur would have that answer. But now there was nothing but messy touches and confusion.

And then, voices.

Usually, Arthur could make out what was being said to him, find the threat, and destroy it – if not simply avoid it. And sometimes he couldn't do any of that. Sometimes every source of energy in the room met and fused and morphed into a singular force and attacked him, mercilessly, like a waterfall rather than rain. And today Alfred had pushed him under the current.

And the waves crashed again him, and Arthur was swept beneath it, all the way to the ground, and screamed even as the water filled his lungs. He couldn't make out the words being said but he knew none of them were good. He couldn't make out his own heartbeat, or Alfred's voice, or Alfred's hands on his shoulders, or Alfred's presence at all. Arthur needed an escape and all the exits were boarded.

Arthur choked on all that was engulfing him, surviving on stolen breaths that made his vision go spotty. He couldn't tell real from fake or thought from action or touch from injury. The bottom of this rabbit hole was cold, flooded, and inescapable.

But no man can fall forever. Arthur eventually had to fit a bottom, as he always did, and no matter how slow or difficult or confusing it was, he had to claw his way back to the surface, as he always did. And so he did. The black went away; the sun reentered. The screams quieted down. Arthur came to realize he was sitting on the cold, hard, dirty ground with his hands clapped uselessly over his ears. There was only one voice left, a real one. But for once Arthur wished it was fake.

"Holy shit. Arthur, Arthur, come on and look at me buddy, oh god, holy shit…"

And slowly, Arthur looked up. "I'm…" He swallowed. "I'm fine."

Alfred looked back, but he did not answer. And then, in one surreal, miserable moment Arthur was sorely positive he would never forget, panic turned to solemnity. Alfred's innocence was nowhere to be found. Now, on the same face that looked like one of naïve teenager just an hour ago, was one of someone who had finally grown up enough to understand.

And Alfred was never meant to grow up.

* * *

 _To be continued..._


	5. Chapter 5

_Another year, another chapter? No matter what I do, I can't get this universe out of my head. I hope at least one of you feels the same._

* * *

In that year, despite how much time they spent together and the fact that both of them were high school students, Alfred studied with Arthur a grand total of once. And 'studying' was a bit of a reach.

"I hate this," groaned Alfred for god knows what time. "I really, really hate this, Arthur."

Arthur rolled his eyes from behind his reading glasses – really, how many seventeen year olds wore _reading glasses? –_ Without looking up from his advanced physics textbook. "I'm aware, Alfred."

Alfred glared at his own biology book as if he wanted to scare the words off the page. It had been half an hour, and he'd read a paragraph. Maybe. Half a paragraph. "How can you do this all the time? It's mighty boring, brother."

"Maybe to you it is." Arthur crossed his legs and flipped the page with a lot more arrogance than what was necessary. "Personally, I find my classes interesting."

"Sure they are," muttered Alfred. "You know, when _you_ asked _me_ to come 'round for once, I should have known there was a catch."

Arthur huffed. "I have no idea what you're talking about. Plenty of kids our age study together."

Alfred slouched back in his seat, threw his hands out, and hollered, "Yeah, the boring ones, maybe!"

"Honestly," said Arthur huffily. "What exactly do you have against education?"

"I've got nothing against education, buddy. It's all the readin' I can't stand."

Finally, Arthur looked up from book and slowly turned to Alfred with a raised eyebrow. He looked genuinely confused, whereas Alfred was used to either judgment or exasperation. "You don't enjoy reading?"

Alfred shook his head. "Can't say I do."

Arthur balked. "Why?"

Alfred got the feeling he should feel ashamed, but really, he wasn't. Arthur didn't like sports; Alfred didn't like reading. There wasn't much of a difference in his eyes. "It takes too much time. I'd rather be up and about doing somethin' than sittin' around with a book."

"Oh." Arthur blinked away his confusion and opened that darn textbook again, lifting his shoulders in a shrug. "Fair enough."

Though he still wasn't ashamed, Alfred really hoped Arthur didn't think any differently of him now. If he was being completely honest with himself, Arthur's opinion meant a lot to him, no matter how insufferable his opinion usually was. Alfred wasn't stupid… really. And he sure as hell didn't want Arthur thinking that. Really, the thought of it made him sick to his stomach.

"Hey, you fixin' to be done with that soon?" said Alfred loudly, mostly as a distraction from himself. "I wanted to show you some photo albums."

"Done?" Arthur sounded incredulous. "We've barely even started."

"Well, finish it later." Arthur glared at that, but Alfred ignored him and said, with feigned hurt, "What, you don't want to see my family? Why do you hate my family, Artie?"

"Oh, come off it, will you?" Arthur rolled his eyes again, but closed the book with a loud thud anyway. Alfred grinned from ear to ear. "Fine. But I don't have all day, mind you."

Alfred laughed, forgetting his embarrassment as he took Arthur by the sweater sleeve and all but dragged him towards the living room. Getting away from those books was a huge relief.

After all, football players didn't need all that book learning.

.

The sun beat down against Alfred's shoulders and neck from where he was sitting on the sidelines, casting dark shadows over him and setting the yellowed pages in front of him ablaze. He squinted. It was loud in here, not to mention hot, and this book was insanely confusing. Alfred wasn't sure if he could understand this material in the best of conditions, much less here. He felt like a struggling kid in high school all over again.

But what _really_ made him feel like he did back in high school was the hand that smacked his shoulder, hard. "Jones!" It was Davie who spoke, lightly harsh. "What are you doing? You should be running through your drills."

"Oh, sorry, coach." With some reluctance, Alfred dog-eared the page he was on and closed the book. The cover read _Surviving Schizophrenia._ "I've got some stuff to catch up on."

"Mhm." Davie leaned over his shoulder and peered down at the book. "What do you have there?"

Alfred chuckled. "Oh, you know." Davie knew of his situation, so Alfred had no qualms about handing the book off to him. "Just some light reading."

Davie cocked an eyebrow, turned the book over in his hand, and the leafed through the pages. "Ah," he said in understanding. "Doing your research?"

Alfred nodded, with a bit of solemnity. "Have to," he said. "I never realized how heavy this shit is. Not until…" He trailed off. Davie did not need to know. Did not need to know about that ill-fated kiss, about how Arthur had reciprocated only to _scream,_ to fall, to look around frantically and dazedly as if he expected the sky to come crashing down. Alfred shuttered. It was a horrible, heart-wrenching moment, but in a strange way he was grateful for it. At least he knew now.

Really, Alfred was not even sure _why_ he had kissed Arthur to begin with. He had wanted to prove a point… at least, that was what he had been neurotically telling himself since the moment it happened. But it hardly mattered _why_ it had happened. It happened, it was over, and Alfred had no time to dwell on it. He didn't _want_ to dwell on it.

Honestly, he would rather just forget it. All of it.

"I could have guessed." Davie opened the book again, glanced at a page for probably five seconds, and nodded as if he could have possibly gotten anything out of it. Then, he closed it and shook his head. "God, it sounds tough."

Describing Arthur's situation as 'tough' was just about as accurate as calling the bombing on Pearl Harbor 'inconvenient,' but Alfred nodded anyway. "Definitely."

"I know you headed out there a few days ago. How did that go?"

Alfred swallowed hard. Again, he reminded himself Davie did not need to know. There were a lot of things about this _no one_ needed to know. "As well as it could go, I guess," he said, a sharp twist in his gut forming with the lie. He quickly moved on. "I'll be going back come next week."

"Alright then." Davie was still holding onto the book, and Alfred reached for it. Davie lifted it above his head like a schoolyard bully. "But it ain't next week yet, Jones."

Alfred slumped his shoulders and fought the urge to pout. "Understood." He could finish it later, he guessed. That and the other six he bought.

So Alfred ran out onto the field, and pushed himself about as hard as he ever had. In every lap, every tackle, and every catch, he hoped his sweat and arching muscles would distract him, but still, he could never quite stop thinking completely – as desperately as he wanted to. That had never happened before. Alfred had no idea how grateful he was for his zone until he couldn't find it anymore.

At the end of a particularly strenuous drill, Alfred bent over, put his hands on his knees, and looked up at the cloudless sky. There were some things he couldn't deny. He couldn't deny that he wasn't quite as fast as their midfielder, or that he didn't always stick to his diet. He couldn't deny Matthew had always been the smart one. In the same respect, he couldn't deny he'd always loved Arthur… who didn't love their best friend? There were different kinds of love; it wasn't a big deal. He focused in on his breath, the heat, his heartbeat. It really wasn't a big deal. That kiss was not a big deal.

The difference between 'love' and 'in love' wasn't a big deal.

.

This time, Alfred did it differently. He took his secondary car – this one was black, and sold for an average price – over his flashy Porsche. He parked in the far back lot and walked inside with his hands in his pockets, his gaze low, and his sunglasses off. This time, Alfred kept a low profile. This time, Alfred knew what the hell he was doing.

As Alfred approached the hospital for the third time, his stomach had tied himself into knots and ached with each step instead of bouncing with excitement. The front doors felt heavier, the lobby more silent, and the staff members' faces far more sullen than he remembered. He tried to ignore it, just as he had so easily the last two times. He failed. Ignorance truly was bliss, he guessed.

But Alfred was able to suppress it by the time he reached the psychiatric ward, to the point he was able to smile and wave and offer cheerful greetings to the staff members working at the front desk, a passing nurse, and even who he assumed was another patient – a freakishly tall man was covered in dirt, wearing gardening gloves and scarf, and humming to himself – although he didn't receive an answer from him. Alfred wasn't too upset about that.

When Alfred saw Arthur, he was reading a book on the sofa in the very center of the room. Alfred paused. In that moment, with his legs crossed, brow furrowed, and eyes only occasionally flicking up from the pages to glance about, Alfred could say he looked… as he remembered him. Then, he didn't have to force anything anymore.

"Hey, Artie!" bellowed Alfred as he barreled across the room. Arthur looked up with only a bit of shock, as if he was told about this before hand, and his expression barely changed even as Alfred threw his arms around his neck and rested his chin on the top of his head. "Miss me?"

"Alfred." Arthur paused, long and thoughtful, his eyes still trained on the page as if he was still reading. Alfred knew he wasn't. "You… you are here. Again."

"Duh!" Alfred smiled, falsely innocent, as if there was no reason at all why he wouldn't have come back. There was an elephant in the room and he was beyond determined to ignore it. What they didn't talk about couldn't hurt them. "I said every week, didn't I? Heroes don't break promises!"

"Oh. Oh, I just…thought…"

Alfred changed the subject as quickly and loudly as possible. "Hey, what are you reading?"

"Oh," said Arthur. Then, he stared at that page for what felt like a long, long time. Then, finally, more a sigh of defeat than anything… "I don't know."

"Alright," said Alfred smoothly despite the dull ache in his chest. He rounded the couch and sat beside Arthur. "You know, I've been doing a little reading myself."

Slowly, too slowly, Arthur set the book down and furrowed his brow. His expression gave Alfred a strange sense of déjà vu. "You hate reading."

Alfred blinked… he was so surprised Arthur even remembered. Ten years, a hospitalization, and god knows what else later, he remembered something as meaningless and petty and Alfred favoring sports over books. "Well, you know," said Alfred uselessly, "Things change." Except nothing had changed, in that aspect. Alfred suffered through those dense psychology texts.

"What were you reading?"

The question had a simple answer, yet Alfred still found himself at a loss. He wondered if he should tell him. But he understood now… to some extent, and after last week, Arthur deserved to know.

"Just some stuff on, um, you know… schizophrenia." He swallowed, coughed into his hand, and looked away to avoid Arthur's expression. "No big deal."

"That's…" Alfred looked back, and he wasn't surprised to see Arthur looked expressionless, unaffected. The books called it a flat affect. "That's very responsible of you, Alfred."

Responsible? Alfred wasn't sure what to make of that. Being called responsible made him _feel_ responsible, somehow, as if it was suddenly up to him to make Arthur better. In high school, Arthur used to unconsciously dote over Alfred – whether it was reminding him to do his math work or getting him an icepack after a bad tackle – but it seemed the tables had turned.

"No big deal," said Alfred again, quieter this time. He wanted to keep talking – about what he knew, about what he didn't, about the terrifying, hopeless things he read as well as the happy, sparkling success stories. But he didn't know how.

But Arthur pushed on. "It's… quite a big deal, rather." He kept his eyes downcast, his legs crossed, and his tone indifferent. Arthur cleared his throat and glanced quickly to the side. "Thank you." No explanation, no eye contact, just… 'Thank you.' Alfred felt as though his insides had been replaced with light.

And the light broke through his skin, though his head, through his worry and tribulations, until only honesty was left, and Alfred was able to say, "So, hallucinations." He felt slightly sick at the word but pressed on. "Those have to be pretty scary, huh? Not knowing what's real and what isn't, I mean."

Arthur drew his head back in a quick motion as if he had been slapped. His eyebrows drew together – not so much in offense, but in a way someone might look upon hearing a five year old say 'astrophysics.' Then he just blinked, nodded.

It was as if someone had pulled the only plug stopping a dam from leaking. Once Alfred started, he didn't want to stop. "I know you can't do all that much, but you're on, like, antipsychotics, right? Something to help your dopamine levels. I mean; it could be a serotonin thing, according to… some people. Maybe I should ask Matthew what he thinks. The side effects sound like a bitch, though. Personally, I-"

"Alfred." Arthur held up a hand as he said it, stopping him. "Slow down, please."

Alfred forced himself to reel back. "Sorry," he said quietly.

"That's quite alright." Arthur cleared his throat. "To answer your question, yes, I'm taking the appropriate medication. The dizziness and fatigue is a bit of a pain, but I can manage."

"Oh." Alfred was not sure whether or not to feel relieved, but he sure was happy about one thing – Arthur had not spoken this clearly since they were reunited. "That's good, then! I guess they got it covered here."

"It's what I'm here for." Arthur was suddenly mumbling. "You know, Alfred…" He trailed off, sighed, and finally looked Alfred in the eye. It looked as though even that was difficult now. "I appreciate your efforts. Really, I do. But…" Another sigh. "This really is not your job."

In about five minutes, Arthur had gone from calling Alfred responsible to accusing him of overstepping. Oh well. The books had warned about disjointed thinking. Either way, he was glad he had some knowledge of the situation now. Something was telling him Arthur was glad, too.

"Gotcha," said Alfred, nodding once.

"Alright." There was a pause. Arthur drummed his fingers on his leg, tensed his jaw, looked out the window and around the room and finally at the floor. Alfred pulled out his phone and answered an unimportant, nowhere-near urgent text message. Then, Arthur said, "I have something to ask of you."

Alfred perked up. "Yeah?"

Arthur took a deep breath and sighed, as if whatever he was about to say was more of a burden on him than anything. "Even though I find it terribly unproductive, we have this… 'family day' around here. You seemed to have dropped in right in the middle of it, actually. Seeing as my parents are no longer with us and my brothers are off god knows where…" He just shrugged, signaling for Alfred to fill in the blanks.

And Alfred took a moment to do so, but when he figured it out, he could not stop himself from beaming. "Aw, Artie! You want me to stick around today to keep you company and junk!"

Arthur rolled his eyes. "That's what it boils down to, I suppose." A brief moment of silence passed, Alfred too dazed to respond, and suddenly Arthur threw his hands up. "For heaven's sakes, if you don't want to-"

"No!" exclaimed Alfred immediately. "I mean, yeah, I mean…" He took a deep, cleansing breath, and then smiled again. "Of course I'll stay!"

"…Oh." Arthur froze up, mumbled something intangible under his breath, and then shrugged again. He shrugged a lot now. "Very well."

It was detached, too detached, but damn, Alfred would take it. "Thanks, dude!"

He threw his arms manically around Arthur, and Arthur patted his arm and mumbled filler words until Alfred finally, almost reluctantly let go. He couldn't be sure just _what_ he was thanking Arthur for… for asking him to stay, for letting him come in the first place, for holding a conversation with him at all? Alfred couldn't be sure. He could only be sure that he was genuinely, intoxicatingly _happy._

Alfred could not say the afternoon went as he expected, but he couldn't say it didn't, either… he hadn't expected anything. He could read as many books as he wanted to, but there were some things about this he really had to dive right into to actually understand. This was one of them.

The hospital was still a bit of a mystery, a bit of a new experience. Alfred wasn't quite sure what to make of the worried-face staff and occasionally hysterical patients. On the other hand, he wasn't quite sure what to make of the warm greetings or smiles, either.

The strangest bit was probably the group therapy. For one, there were actually two groups having sessions simultaneously in opposite ends of the wing– one group for Arthur, and strangely enough, one for Alfred. Arthur was whisked away, and Alfred was left with the rest of who they called 'Supporters' – otherwise healthy and stable individuals that have been somehow affected by the illness of their loved one.

It was quite the interesting mix. The ones who stuck out were Lukas, a stone-faced Scandinavian who apparently had some relation to the spikey haired maniac Alfred could hear shouting from down the hall, Ludwig, a rather angry looking man with the build of one of Alfred's linebackers who sat red in the face and refused to say a single word about who he was there for, and, of course, Alfred's very own brother Matthew.

Alfred wasn't able to see much of him – in fact, he was pretty sure Matthew had assumed he left before all of this, and the 'Supporters' group was run by some tiny quiet guy they called Dr. Hassan – but one look at Matthew's group on his way back from the bathroom was enough. Alfred had never seen him in action before, but watching him try to corral his patients with little help from his team was probably more amusing than it should have been. It was as if none of them even realized Matthew was there.

Alfred forgot about Matthew, however, when he found himself actually listening to those around him. Red-eyed, tired people slumped over in cheap plastic chairs mumbled about medication, meltdowns, relapses, relationship troubles, police reports and hopelessness. For once, Alfred could find absolutely nothing to say. After all those books, he _thought_ he understood what he would be facing, but hearing these raw, teary stories from people who'd been dealing with it longer, Alfred came to the nausea-inducing realization that things were somehow _worse_ than he read about.

It scared him, but it in no way put him off.

A chaotic forty-five minutes later, the groups were messily, unprofessionally dismissed. Alfred scanned the now reunited crowd for Arthur but spotted Matthew first. He blinked away his trance and pushed past the sick feeling sitting in his stomach like a brick. Talking to his brother would help. Surely.

"Mattie!" he called out over the noise. Matthew turned to him, and his dull, tired eyes snapped to something very deer-in-the-headlights before Alfred could blink. He wondered why, but ignored it. "You need to get some more help around here. I mean, seriously. Why-"

"Alfred." In an out of character, surreal moment, Matthew almost forcefully pushed through the crowd and ended up in front of Alfred in mere moments. "I thought you were just visiting today."

Alfred drew his eyebrows together in confusion. "I am visiting."

"Yes, but you're still here. There aren't any casual visits right now. This… this is therapy. Treatment."

Alfred frowned. He couldn't decide what offended him more: that Matthew apparently thought he didn't know what this was, or that he looked so shocked, confused, and even a little _afraid_ while he was explaining it. "I know," said Alfred. "Arthur asked me to stick around."

Matthew's eyes widened. "He _asked_ you?"

"I think you might want to get your hearing checked, bro." Before Matthew could respond, Alfred spotted Arthur from across the hall and instinctually took a step in his direction. "Good talk. I'll see ya later!"

"Alfred!" called Matthew after him. "We need to-"

Alfred barely even heard him. "Love you too!"

Matthew said something else, but it couldn't compete with all the noise already in Alfred's head. He wasn't sure if he was smiling, but he hoped he was, and when he reached Arthur he hoped his internal conflict wasn't obvious.

"Artie!" said Alfred, imposing cheerfulness. Arthur parted his lips as if to object to the nickname, but closed his mouth as if he lacked the energy. "How'd it go?"

"It was routine," said Arthur flatly. He looked away. "Did you hear that?"

"Uh, no, can't say I did." Alfred quickly moved on. "My group was fun! Some of them were a little too gloomy for my tastes, though."

Slowly, Arthur looked away from whatever imaginary thing he was fixated on and looked Alfred dead in the eye. "What did you expect, exactly?"

Alfred wasn't sure how to answered that – he'd gone into this blind. "Um…"

It must have been a rhetorical question. "Nothing about this is unicorns and rainbows, Alfred." Alfred wondered if Arthur caught the irony in that, but figured laughing would be beyond inappropriate. "They're 'gloomy' because this entire bloody place is 'gloomy.' This _situation_ is 'gloomy' as all hell."

Alfred could have done a lot of things right then – he could have tried to refute that, could have laughed, could have made a stupid joke or just ignored what Arthur had said entirely. But after all his attempts to understand, he wasn't about to throw it away by acting ignorant and dismissive again.

Still unable to give a direct response, Alfred said, "Can we maybe talk someplace else?"

Arthur glared for a moment, and then rolled this eyes. "Fine," he said, turning on his heel. "Come on, now."

They ended up in Arthur's room – if it could even be called that. To Alfred it bore more resemblance to a jail cell, from the bare bones bed to the locks on the windows to the dingy white paint on the walls. The only pop of color, he noticed, was the blob of pink wedged between the bedframe and the wall. It was the unicorn. It hurt a little bit to see his gift shoved to the side like that, but he figured there must be a reason. And now was hardly the time to bring up something so petty.

"So," said Arthur, sitting on the dismal bed. Alfred sat about a foot away from him. "What did you want to discuss?"

Alfred wanted to say 'nothing.' He wanted to joke around, wanted to laugh, wanted to smile and be himself. After all, he was happy to be around Arthur. But he'd been crafting this speech in his head since the second the woman checking him out at the bookstore gave him a funny look and he could hardly call himself a hero if he backed out now. So, after a deep breath, he said, "I just had a few things to tell you."

"Alright." Arthur crossed his arms with a huff of impatience. "Out with it, then."

And then, Alfred was not sure what to do. There wasn't much room in his life for serious talk. It was all press interviews, banter between him and his teammates, jokes and lightheartedness and _ease._ This was anything but easy… but Alfred could not help but feel like that was a good thing. It filled something he had not even realized was empty.

"Artie… Arthur." Alfred smiled as Arthur rolled his eyes. "I just wanted to let you know, I'm… I'm not going anywhere, dude."

Arthur blinked. "Beg pardon?"

"You know." When met with a blank, lack of understanding stare, Alfred grew flustered and waved his hands spastically about the room. "This… it doesn't freak me out." He took a breath. "I just want my best friend back, okay? I don't care what I have to do."

There was a long silence. Alfred allowed the weight of his words to hang in the air, tangible, quite sure Arthur felt it, too. Finally, Arthur said, "Wow, Alfred, that's quite…" He cleared his throat, but failed to continue. Then he looked to the space between the bed and the wall. "Oh, how did that get there?"

With a certain deliberateness, Arthur picked up the stuffed unicorn and placed it carefully on his pillow.

.

Twenty minutes, a few well strung-together sentences, and a huge rush of relief later, Alfred was making his way to the exit when he felt a sudden and surprisingly violent tug on his sleeve.

"Alfred," said a voice so firm Alfred scarcely recognized it as Matthew's, "We need to talk. Now."

Alfred turned, pulled away from Matthew's iron grip and raised an eyebrow. "Something wrong, bro?"

Matthew actually rolled his eyes. "Come here." With that, Alfred was half-lead, half-dragged to Matthew's office. Before he could say anything, Matthew said, "What exactly are your intentions with all of this, Alfred?"

"What do you mean?"

"I think you know exactly what I mean." Alfred was too confused to respond. Matthew pursed his lips, and then softened his expression with a sigh. "Look, Al… I know how you live. The media is always talking about your little flings with this girl or that guy and while that's completely your business, Arthur… He can't be part of that. Arthur needs stability."

Alfred frowned, his stomach twisting painfully. He was actually a little insulted. "Matt, I-"

"I simply cannot allow you to jeopardize his recovery." There was that stern tone again. "So, if you have any doubts about wanting to be mixed up in this – any at all – I'll have to ask you back off."

"Matthew," said Alfred, his voice loud and serious enough to compete with that of his brother, "Arthur was… Arthur _is_ my best friend. Of course I'm serious about this. I-" Alfred quickly closed his mouth, a slug of panic threading through his insides when he realized his first instinct was to say _I love him,_ as he still didn't know what to make of the idea. Flustered, he gave up.

A pause. "I just need you to be sure."

"Believe me," Alfred turned to the door, opened it, and hoped to leave a whole mess of thoughts behind as he stepped out. "I'm sure."

* * *

 _To be continued..._


	6. Chapter 6

_So, I found this unpublished chapter sitting on my computer... no promises, but I haven't forgotten. Really, I haven't. These stories will live in my heart forever. I would love to finish it one day, if anyone still cares enough to read._

* * *

"Lord almighty, Arthur, it's _soccer._ What I play is football!"

Arthur pierced his salad with his fork and sighed. "It's called football everywhere else in the bloody world," he said, even though it was in vain. He had met Alfred mere months ago and this had to be the tenth time they had had this same argument. Even still, he would be damned if he gave up. "Just because Americans decide something doesn't mean it's correct."

Alfred looked up mid-hamburger, offended. "That's exactly what it means!"

Arthur scoffed. "Then why is it that _soccer_ is a game about kicking the ball with your _foot,_ and whatever you play barely requires any kicking at all?"

Alfred had the good sense to pause and think about that, but lost none of the arrogance in his expression. "Explain kickoff, then!"

Arthur rolled his eyes and prepared to shut down Alfred's lousy American excuse for logic, but his rebuttal was cut off by a sudden commotion going on at the next table. Though he couldn't yet make out the conversation, Arthur turned at the sound of muffled yelling and laughter to see a boy hovering over a girl, hand panted squarely on the table in front of her, lip curled in an obnoxious shit-eating grin. Listening closely, he was able to catch of snippet of it.

"Come on, just one date," he said with laughter in his voice. "I'll stop bugging you if you say yes!"

Arthur raised an eyebrow, already dubious of this whole exchange, and let his eyes drift a few feet to the young lady these comments were directed towards. She was Asian, with long dark hair and wide, almost fearful eyes. The book sitting beside her was the only other thing at the table. She said nothing, weaving her slender fingers together and looking away.

But of course the bloke carried on. "You know you want to. Come what, what do you say?"

"I said no," said the girl finally, an edge of what was almost firmness in her voice. "Please just leave me alone."

"I'll show you a good time." The boy leant forward as he said the words, and even Arthur was uncomfortable from where he was. He couldn't imagine how the poor girl felt, especially when he said, "All my ex-girlfriends are Asian. You can be my little china doll."

Arthur was not sure how or if she responded to that, because he immediately turned away, revolted. "Can you believe that?" he said in Alfred's general direction. "Disgraceful. I swear, people here have absolutely no sense of…" Arthur looked up mid-rant, but stopped speaking when he saw the look on Alfred's face. Arthur felt his stomach drop, his eyes widen. He blinked. "Alfred?"

And then, as if Arthur had said nothing at all, Alfred slammed his hand against the tabletop and spoke loud enough to be heard across the room. "Didn't you hear the lady? Back off, man!"

The boy turned, no less amused and nauseatingly cocky than he looked a moment ago. "Maybe _you_ should back off. I'm having a private conversation with my girl here."

Stone-faced, Alfred slowly panted both palms on the table and slowly rose to his full near six-foot height. Football had added extra muscle to his already athletic frame, and with his shoulders back, spine straight, and usually baby blue eyes dark and hard behind his glasses, he certainly didn't look like a freshman. He walked out in front of the table and looked him dead in the face.

"She's not your girl," said Alfred. Even his voice had changed… what was usually goofy and charming had dipped into something out of a hyper-masculine spaghetti western. "Look. Where I'm from, we treat girls like ladies. And men act like men, not pigs."

And apparently he was going to take the dialogue straight out of a western as well. Arthur was not sure whether to be horrified, embarrassed by association, proud, or some ludicrous mix of the three. So he watched, frozen.

The boy was still smirking, but it was noticeably shakier. He opened his mouth but no sound came out, as if he had finally ran out of snarky remarks. Then, finally, neck slightly tilted to actually look up at Alfred, he said, "Whatever. She's not that special." Then he turned, mumbling something that sounded like 'redneck' under his breath.

Then, as if someone had flipped a switch, Alfred smiled brightly like he usually did and turned around to face the girl. "You okay, darling?"

She nodded. "Yes, thank you. I thought he would never leave."

Alfred extended a hand. "My name is Alfred."

She smiled, took his hand, shook it. "Mei."

Alfred ended up inviting her to sit with the two of them, and Arthur tried to scold Alfred about making a scene, tried to give Mei his condolences about having to deal with such chauvinists, even tried to argue his side when Alfred rehashed the 'soccer vs. football' argument yet again. And for the most part, he succeeded. But the more he tried to ignore it, the more he tried to push it back and deny it, a sneaking feeling slipped into his skin and lit up with every second Alfred piled on the charm as he spoke to her.

Jealousy.

…

Alfred knew it would happen eventually. Of course it would happen eventually, because he could barely go out for dinner without it getting on the news, and he couldn't really expect to pop into the local psych ward once a week and have it go unnoticed. But Alfred must have thought so, because when he opened the newspaper up to the sports page and read that article about himself and his hospital visits, he was shocked. Stunned, really. Spending a good part of the past two months with Arthur made him forget he was celebrity.

It was a harmless article, for the most part. It was short, shoved in the corner of the last page of the section, and read as nothing more than low-brow celebrity gossip. But Alfred's heart pounded as he read it. It might have been meaningless, petty and honestly stupid, but he felt as though this sacred part of his life had been intruded upon. They knew. They knew about the hospital, probably knew about Arthur. And in the media, when it rains, it pours.

But Alfred brushed it off. He threw the paper in the garbage, finished his first cola of the day, and moved on with his life. He pushed himself in practice to the point he was dizzy and out of breath, too exhausted and sore to think about anything. That's what he did when the press _insisted_ he used steroids, or when 'a reliable source' seemed to know for certain that he cheated on a girlfriend a few years back. But at least neither of those rumors had any truth to them. Again, Alfred brushed it off.

Another few weeks and three visits to Arthur later, Alfred had managed to all but forget that article. Now, he was center seat at a pre-season press conference. It was something he was used to. The hot lights beating down on his skin, the mics in his face, his teammates and Coach Davie by his side. After all the new, confusing shit that had been thrown in his face, there was something comforting about being basked in this familiarity… even if it was being broadcasted live.

"Davie!" called a female reporter from somewhere in the crowd. "What are your plans to improve defense in the coming season?"

Alfred looked over his right shoulder to look at his coach. A camera flashed, a light moved a fraction of an inch and right in his eyes. Davie squinted, but smiled. "We've been focusing more on offense in training, but with our new lineup, I'm sure we can pick up the defense slack from last season."

He went on to talk about how the team had traded one of their outside linebackers for a guy from the Chicago Bears, as well as their safety for someone from Philly. Alfred did his best to concentrate on his words while continuing to smile for the cameras. He tried to concentrate on his goals for next season, on his preparations, on this game he had chosen to dedicate his life to. But there was a mental block in his way the size of a three-hundred-pound defensive lineman… he would be visiting Arthur in a few days. Alfred missed him.

He missed him so much in fact that he managed to zone out for half the interview. Alfred was only brought back to attention when he heard his own name from the crowd of reporters, loud and shrill and carried by one of the heaviest New York accent he had ever heard. "I've got a question for Jones!"

Alfred blinked, eyes widening. "Yeah?"

"Is it true you're involved with a man currently checked into a psychiatric hospital?"

Just like that, everything around Alfred stopped. His teammates turned to look at him; everyone in the crowd turned to look at him, Davie just shook his head and starred at his shoes. Alfred's eyes unfocused until everything in front of him looked like nothing more than muddled blur of color and lights. They knew. Somehow, they knew. His jaw tensed until he felt he couldn't open his mouth, and the thoughts in his head were replaced with the interference coming off his microphone. What could he say?

Like the voice of God himself, Davie suddenly cut in. "Let's keep the questions relating to the game, alright? We're not here to discuss the personal lives of our players."

"Come on, can't we get an answer from Jones himself?"

"Moving on," said Davie firmly, immediately.

Alfred felt some relief, but not much. Even as the reporter relented he could still feel everyone's gaze on him, still sense the surge of suspicion that such a simple question had spiked. It wasn't that he was ashamed of Arthur. Not by a long shot. What worried him was how fragile Arthur already was, how beaten down he already was, and how ruthless the media could be. It was bound to be a terrible combination. Alfred felt horribly sick to the point he didn't even bother to pay attention to the rest of the conference.

Before he knew it, the interview was over. Alfred shot up from his seat and got about as close as he could to running off the platform without bringing too much attention to himself. His teammates seemed to lag behind him on purpose, muttering to each other, acting a whole lot more like high-schoolers than the grown-ass men they were supposed to be.

Alfred felt the beginnings of anger burn the back of his neck. This was nobody's business. Hell, maybe _none_ of his personal life should be anyone else's business, no matter what everyone had grown to expect from him. When had he and every other celebrity become public property? Who decided this?

Fuming from what was going on in his head, Alfred made it outside with his hands shoved deep in his pockets, his pace fast, and his eyes low. All he wanted was to go home. For the first time in a long while, he just wanted to be alone. He wanted to be alone until he could be with his brother, or with Arthur, behind closed doors. The limelight had taken his toll and his batteries were in desperate need of recharging.

But of course, it could never be that simple. Even if the interview was over this experience was far from it. Everyone and their mother wanted pictures, extra questions, and whatever else. Alfred tried to smile. No matter how over the whole thing he was right then, he had an image to uphold.

"Jones!" called a reporter, thankfully a different one. A microphone was shoved in his face without any kind of consent. "Do you have any worries about this upcoming season?"

Alfred gave what felt like an internal sigh of relief. It was just a football question… he could handle a football question. "Not really. I have complete faith in myself and in my teammates," he said. He smiled a bit more genuinely. "I don't have any doubt we'll make it to the Super Bowl this year. We've all been practicing like crazy. To be real honest, in my mind, as long as I can walk, I can win!"

Alfred felt a little better when the reporter smiled back and him and thanked him for his answer. They had always loved his arrogance, his confidence in how he played the game. And Alfred loved it, too. He had certainly worked hard enough to earn it.

A few more minutes, a few more questions. Alfred's rage had pretty much subsided, with only a small trace of it when he remembered the first reporter's question. It happened, he guessed. No harm had been done yet. After he was asked for the umpteenth time what his biggest goal for the year was, the questions and flashing cameras trickled down a bit, and Alfred was fixing to get away. In fact, he almost made it to the parking lot. But of course, he had to be approached one more time. He looked up when his name was called, still smiling, but it fell immediately when Alfred realized he recognized that face, that voice. It was him again.

"Come on, Jones," said that nails on a chalkboard voice. "Tell us a little about what's going on. You've been spotted at that hospital several times over the last few months."

Alfred tried to laugh dismissively, but it came out of more of a strained sigh. "I don't think I've got anything interesting to tell you, buddy."

"You must!" insisted the reporter. He stuck out his microphone another inch, just far enough to nearly graze Alfred's mouth. Alfred flinched back. "What's his name? How do you know him? Wait, I think I've got something here. It's… Arthur, right? Arthur K.?"

Alfred's stomach tightened into a mass of painful ropes. He looked to one side, and then the other, and repeated both actions again before he finally accepted that Davie wasn't around to step in for him this time. Lost and on the verge of panic, Alfred said what he had been trained to. "No comment."

Of course, he was completely ignored. This reporter was relentless. "Is this relationship romantic? How long has it been going on?"

Butterflies of discomfort rose up in Alfred's stomach. He didn't know how this man had gotten this information, right down to Arthur's _name,_ for Christ's sakes, and he was sure he didn't want to know. It was scary. It was disgusting _._ And there was nothing Alfred could do about it. "No comment," he repeated, hoarsely this time.

"Well, at least tell me this," said the reporter as if he was entitled to an answer, as if he was entitled to _Alfred._ "What's it like being around someone who's mentally disturbed?"

Alfred had thought the crowd had thinned out but apparently he was wrong. Dozens were gathered around this interaction now, flashing cameras at him, waiting for something they thought they deserved, microphones ready and bloodthirsty eyes focused on him. "What?" said Alfred.

"Well, anyone who's in a place like that must have some problems," he said, as if it was no big deal. Alfred just starred, his heart thumping into his throat. The reporter sighed. "Hey, I'm trying to be PC here. I'm asking how you maintain a relationship with someone who's got a screw loose." A pause. Alfred hands curled into his palms until his nails dug into the skin, every tendon in his arms tensing. "Isn't he a schizo?"

"Look, dude, I really don't think this is any of your-"

"Is he violent? People like that usually are." He said it as if he knew anything about this, as if he knew Arthur, as if his head was anyplace but his ass and his IQ wasn't in the single digits. Alfred was beginning to see red. Then, that bonehead of a reporter actually chuckled and said, probably thinking Alfred couldn't hear him, "It's probably a good thing we keep people like that locked up."

Before he could think to respond any other way, Alfred lifted his fist and swung.

.

Arthur sat on his bed in his empty hospital room, absently running his hands over the pink felt of the stuffed unicorn Alfred had given him. _It_ had long since stopped giving him trouble over keeping it around. A small victory, he told himself. The more Alfred came around, the more normal his presence in his life became, and with normality came peace. With that misguided kiss shoved under the rug and forgotten about, it was almost like old times. Almost.

Maybe some things were just meant to be forgotten about.

Just as Arthur was drawing dangerously close to the wormhole that was thinking about that train wreck of a moment yet again, the door creaked open. Arthur hurriedly shoved the unicorn to the side and turned to face the noise. Ivan poked his head into the room, smiling in that shifty way of his, and focused his unreadable eyes on Arthur. Arthur stiffened.

"Arthur!" said Ivan, far too cheery. "You might be wanting to come out here. There is something on television I think you should be seeing."

"Oh?" said Arthur, confused. He didn't care much for TV. "What would that be?"

"There is sports player you are friends with, yes? They are talking about you," said Ivan with his usual strain of strange cheerfulness.

Arthur blinked, failing to understand. Alfred was talking about him? With who? Why? "What?" was all he could say.

"I would hurry." With that, Ivan left the room – presumably back to the lounge, back to watch whatever on earth was going on. Arthur gave it about a second's consideration before following him.

When he got to the commons, Arthur noticed that everyone he had met in this place thus far was surrounding the television. Gilbert and Mathias were stretched out on either side of the couch, eyes focused and the two of them occasionally gasping or hollering like they were watching the big game instead of what looked to be the news. Ivan was standing behind them, smiling. Even Matthew was there – Arthur wasn't sure he'd ever seen him distracted like this – mouth wide-open, eyes big, and all-around dead silent.

Arthur rushed over to the group and tried not to look as unnerved as he was when all eyes immediately landed on him. "What on earth is going on here?" he asked. "What are you all watching? What could possibly be so bloody interesting?"

No one responded, but it didn't matter. Arthur's question answered itself. It took one glance at the screen to see that Alfred was on it, talking to what he assumed was a reporter. Or maybe 'talking' was too strong of a word. Alfred looked as though he was being interrogated. The reporter's microphone was directly in his face and Alfred was pushing back, fighting, a kind of anger on his face that Arthur had not seen since high school.

The noise both in the room and omitting from the speakers and his own head made it difficult to hone in on what Alfred was being asked, but Arthur caught bits and pieces: 'schizo,' 'mentally disturbed,' and once, though he was half certain he was hearing it incorrectly, 'Arthur.'

But he must have heard it correctly, because Matthias, who was evidently on one of his hyperactive 'good' days, said, "Hey! He's talking about you! Arthur, hey, this guy knows about you two!"

But how? Arthur continued to watch the screen. The reporter was relentless, still asking questions that Alfred didn't answer, and with each second that passed that unfamiliar anger on his face grew more and more apparent. It was nearly surreal. Alfred – sweet, naïve, forever-smiling Alfred – looked close to going mad. And it was all in Arthur's apparent defense.

Before Arthur could even take that in, he watched in utter disbelief as Alfred punched the bloke clear in the jaw.

The energy in the room exploded. Gilbert practically choked on his own sharp inhale, Matthew clapped on hand over his mouth, Ivan started giggling, and Matthias broke out in uproarious cheering and applause. Yet all Arthur did was stare. He couldn't comprehend what was happening, couldn't acknowledge it, but at the same time it felt like Déjà-vu. Even halfway across the country, Alfred was standing up for him. It was so, well, like him.

By the time he looked back, Alfred had somehow managed to snatch the microphone from the man he had just assaulted. With fire in his eyes, he said, "His name is Arthur, okay? Not schizo, not crazy, not violent, _Arthur._ And he's the most wonderful person in the whole goddamn world."

If everyone had not been staring at Arthur before, they were now. The mix of cheeky smirks and disbelieving empty stares were almost too much to stomach. There was jumbled conversation all around him and vague whispers even deeper in the distance, but Arthur was able to ignore it, as they were putting him in handcuffs now. It was a natural consequence, but Arthur found himself pursing his lips as he watched it happen. Oh, Alfred. He had too much passion for one man. At least he meant well.

"Oh my god," said Matthew, intruding in on Arthur's train of thought. "He always has to get into _something,_ doesn't he?"

The question must not have been directed towards anyone, because Matthew immediately rushed back to his office. The news switched to a story about rising gas prices, the room quieted down, and one by one everyone who had gathered around to watch Alfred making a scene went back to their dull, everyday psychiatric ward routines. The excitement was over.

But Arthur stayed still for a few more moments. In the empty lounge, the air charged with energy that was slowly fading out, he let it sink in that Alfred had punched a man for him. Had gotten arrested for him. He stood there, and just as he was about to leave, Arthur noticed he was smiling.

.

Alfred came back to visit the very next week with only bruised knuckles, a few community service hours, and a story to tell. Sitting on Arthur's bed, he wore a look of pride. Arthur had half a mind to smack it off him. After all, there was nothing admirable about punching an unarmed man in the face, no matter how irritating he might be. But no matter how hard he tried, Arthur couldn't bring himself to be mad at that grin.

"So they just let you off?" asked Arthur finally.

Alfred chuckled, and then ran his uninjured hand over the other. "Yeah, kinda. Cops are usually pretty easy on us. There's probably a lot of privilege involved in that, but whatever."

Well, at least he recognized the injustices that benefited him. Arthur looked away and picked at the bed sheet. After a long silence, he said, "How did they know you were coming here, Alfred? How did they know my name?"

Alfred's grin finally fell, and Arthur found that in spite of himself he missed it immediately. Alfred ran his hand through his hair, winced when he realized it was the affected one, and sighed into a response. "The media has its ways," he said. "They're snakes, all of them. I'm sorry, Artie… Arthur. I really am. The last thing I wanted was for you to get dragged into all of that BS."

Arthur blinked. "Not your fault," he said. "I suppose it comes with… what you do."

"Tell me about it," Alfred chuckled, humorlessly. "I swear to god, if I had _one_ wish, it would be for those idiots to leave me alone for five minutes. I just want to play the game, you know?"

Arthur nodded. Maybe Alfred's lifestyle was more of a pain than he first imagined it to be. Perhaps he and Alfred weren't really living such different lives. They both had something following them around day and night, both without any way to stop it, both desperate only for peace they couldn't achieve. They only difference was that Arthur's lived in his head.

"But why did you do it?" Arthur did not realize he had begun to talk until he finished the question. It was bound to come out eventually, though, as it had been rattling around in his head since the moment he watched the events unfold onscreen.

"Why did I hit the guy?" Alfred asked. Arthur nodded.

"Certainly it wasn't necessary to assault him."

At that, Alfred laughed. A real, hearty, room-filling laugh. "Only you would consider that an _assault,"_ he said. _Aside from the legal system,_ thought Arthur. But he kept that to himself. Alfred stopped laughing and looked back at him, smiling slightly, glasses glinting in the artificial light. "I just got sick of it, I guess. Sick of him. Sick of all of it. I don't know." Arthur raised an eyebrow, and Alfred straightened his back, heroic all of a sudden. "Well, I wasn't about to let some jerk talk trash about my best friend!"

Arthur fought back a smile, unsuccessfully. "Flattering. I just hope it was worth the consequence."

Alfred shrugged. "I'll have some time to think about it when I'm picking up trash from the side of the road."

"You are such a bloody moron." But Arthur laughed as he said it. "Always getting yourself into some kind of trouble."

"Anything for you, Arthur." Alfred tipped his head back of if the florescent hospital lights were the sun, closed his eyes, and basked in it. "Anything for you."

* * *

 _To be continued... I hope._


	7. Chapter 7

"Honestly, Alfred, I think you're being a tad dramatic."

Alfred looked up from his seat on the curb in front of the DMV, hands folded over the mess of paperwork crumbled in his lap, and stared at Arthur. "But _Art,_ " he whined, "This is the second time!"

Arthur sighed, lent over, and dusted the curb uselessly. Trying to ignore how dirty it probably was, he sat next to Alfred. "Well," he said, "Maybe if you didn't insist on going so bloody fast, they would be more inclined to pass you."

Alfred scrunched his nose. "I do not drive that fast," he said. Arthur quirked an eyebrow. "What?"

Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose. He was not sure which was worse – just how recklessly Alfred drove, or that he truly didn't seem to realize it. "The speed limit is not a _suggestion,_ " said Arthur. "Honestly, Alfred, I've been trying to hammer that into your skull since the moment we started."

"Everyone goes five over!"

"Five, maybe. Not fifteen." Arthur stared at Alfred pointedly. "And certainly not during the exam."

Alfred opened his mouth as if to protest but said nothing. Instead he took a breath, shoulders deflating, and stared at his shoes. He had been wearing those red sneakers so long tread had worn flat. "I turned sixteen a _month_ ago," he said as if it were decades. "Seriously, Arthur! What am I supposed to do when I'm the only one on the team without a license?" His eyes widened. "What if I NEVER get it?"

Arthur tried to scowl but ended up grinning instead. Alfred certainly had a flair for the dramatic. "Oh, for crying out loud. You've taken the blasted test twice, and you act like it's been two hundred times. Plenty of people need to retake it."

"How many times did you take the test?"

"Once," Arthur said and then quickly added, "because I always make sure to be careful on the road. They don't just dole out licenses to any maniac, you know." Alfred said nothing, and Arthur softened his tone. "Lighten up, will you? I'm positive you'll pass it next time around. You just have to be a little more careful."

"Careful," Alfred parroted, still staring intently at his shoes. "Got it."

Arthur turned from Alfred to look at nothing. In a way, it was irritating – this hardly that big of a deal. But he knew why Alfred was pouting. He was not used to losing, even if it was the smallest thing. He excelled in everything he tried and to fail was to end the world.

"Hey, Arthur?"

Arthur turned back to Alfred and waited.

"I just wanted to say thanks," said Alfred. He smiled. "You know, for teaching me and all that."

Arthur chuckled humorlessly. Yes, he supposed Alfred was able to at least locate the turn signals now thanks to him, even if he forgot to use them half the time. Despite Alfred's eternal stubbornness when it came to driving, Arthur could not help but feel he could he done a better job teaching him, considering the situation. But he would never tell him that. "Please," he said. "All I did was let you take us around the neighborhood once or twice."

"Still," said Alfred. "It was more than my old man bothered to do."

"I… suppose." Arthur cleared his throat, uncomfortable. He still wasn't sure exactly what Alfred's relationship with his father was, but judging by the fact that Arthur hadn't so much as seen him before, he couldn't make many optimistic assumptions. "Maybe he was worried you would kill him," he said. "Lord knows I was."

Arthur had expected Alfred to laugh, and immediately felt bad when he didn't. "Am I really that bad?"

"No," said Arthur quickly, immediately. "No, Alfred, you're not that bloody bad. I was only joking."

Alfred straightened up. "Well, I need my license by the fall, definitely."

"That's quite a ways away. I'm sure you'll have it by then," said Arthur. "What's in the fall?"

"I mean, you are graduating, aren't ya?" Alfred tilted his head and looked at Arthur with unblinking eyes. "Where did you say you were going to college?"

And then, Arthur was hit with the sudden, obvious realization that Alfred intended to visit him. Well, of course he did. Alfred was Alfred. But Arthur had hardly even thought about soon he was leaving, not to mention what it would be like when he did… He let his mouth fall agape, shook his head lightly. "Oh, Alfred, no," he said. "You need to focus on your studies. I can't have you driving all over for creation for something so silly."

"Silly?" Alfred sounded incredulous. "What am I supposed to do, never see my best friend again? That ain't happenin', I can tell you that much right now."

Arthur forced himself to speak through the lump rising traitorously in his throat. "There you go again with that dramatic nonsense. No one is leaving _forever,_ Alfred. University has breaks just like high school does. I'll be back."

"Well, fine. But you have to at least let me come up for a weekend or something once in awhile."

Arthur just nodded, long since given up on ever arguing with him. He had the good sense to know that Alfred was going to do whatever he wanted, regardless of what anyone told him. And Arthur secretly admired that about him. Really, the thought of Alfred listening to him for once and _not_ visiting him at university was horribly depressing.

What Arthur neglected to tell him was that he was about one bad grade away from getting his admission revoked, because he could never seem to concentrate on his work anymore. Everything was just too loud and too annoying, more so than usual, and Arthur was tired. No one ever shut up and it was terribly distracting. Everywhere, from school to his home to everywhere in between. It was just so loud.

Must have been burnout, Arthur told himself.

It had to be.

.

When Alfred found himself deep in the south just two days before he was supposed to be visiting Arthur in the northeast, he couldn't say it surprised him. 'Tis the life of a star, he guessed. Between press conferences, practices, paid appearances, photo shoots, and lord knows what else, he was swamped in the pre-season chaos.

But it was okay. Alfred was used to it, after all. Besides, it didn't matter if he was on the other side of the country, a _different_ country, the middle of the Atlantic, or on the surface of the goddamn moon. A promise was a promise. Alfred was getting to Arthur by week's end no matter what.

"Leaving?" Davie blinked. "Jones, opening day is just a couple weeks away. It's hardly a good time for a vacation."

"Vacation?" scoffed Alfred, almost offended. "Coach, you know the situation. It's no vacay. Besides, I'll be back in a couple days."

"You expect to make it to New York and back in a couple days?" Davie crossed his arms over his chest. "What if your flight gets delayed?"

Alfred tipped his head. "Flight? No, dude. I'm driving."

Davie's eyes all but bugged out of his head. "That has to be a fifteen-hour trip each way, at least! Why in the hell wouldn't you fly?"

Alfred shrugged, unaffected. "I get too much attention at airports. Besides, I like road trips."

There was a pause, a long moment of eye contact that Alfred smiled through, and finally, a resigned sigh. "You're crazy, Alfred." Davie shrugged. "But I can't say you've ever let me down."

A swell of pride bubbled up in Alfred's chest. "Hey, I try."

"I sure hope so," said Davie. He clapped a hand on Alfred's shoulder, a firm, fatherly gesture. "Because you still have community service left to do when you get back."

Alfred grimaced. Of course. "Forgot about that," he mumbled, but smiled soon after. "I'm on top of it, Coach!"

"Atta boy." Davie drew his hand back. "How is he doing, anyway? Arthur, right?"

Alfred was surprised by how much just hearing the name affected him. Hearing it on the lips of his coach and long term mentor somehow made all this all the more real, all the more present in his life. He swallowed hard to aid his dry throat. "He's… hanging in there," said Alfred. As he finished, the alarm on his Rolex buzzed once. It was already mid-morning; he had to leave. "I'll let you know when I get back."

Davie nodded. His eyes caught the high sun, casting shadows against the wrinkles in his forehead and the early wisps of grey in his hair. For just a second, he almost looked old. "Have a good trip."

Alfred nodded, straightened his watch, and gave a short wave before turning to leave. His back was turned when he heard his coach's voice again.

"Hey, Alfred?"

Alfred turned, squinting against the sun, and raised his eyebrows.

"Be careful, okay?"

For a moment Alfred just stared, a bit taken aback. He wondered where that had come from. He had heard a lot of encouragements from Davie, from 'go get 'em' to 'show them your worst' to 'you've got this,' but never 'be careful.' It sounded out of place. But maybe Alfred was simply thinking too hard… he'd been doing a lot of that lately.

"Yeah," he said. "Of course."

.

Kayusha gingerly moved her foot in small circles on the floor. Her eyes felt gritty, her body too heavy. The first plane ride had stiffened her back and the plastic chair in the terminal wasn't helping. She managed to focus her gaze on the large departure board, but immediately wondered why she bothered. DELAYED had switched to CANCELLED half an hour ago, and judging by the speed of the rain against the window, it wasn't changing back anytime soon.

"What does it say?" said her sister in Russian. Katyusha pursed her lips. She realized she spoke more English than Natalia, but this was the sixth time she asked. At this point, it was out of misplaced hope rather than an inability to read the language.

"I told you, it is cancelled," said Katyusha.

Natalia did not respond. Her jaw tensed, the tiny movement illuminated by a flash of lighting. Her white-blonde hair was stringy against her cheek, falling limp against the dress she had been wearing for too long. Her arms and legs were crossed too tightly and her eyes were far off.

Katyusha took a heavy breath. She couldn't blame her sister for being frustrated. Though their flight should have taken no more than eleven hours, a distinct lack of funds had forced them to take a ludicrous connecting flight scheduled hours after their first one had landed. Now, when the sun had long since disappeared and any sense of excitement over being in the states for the first time had been overshadowed by the need to just _get there,_ they were hopelessly stuck in a state Katyusha had forgotten the name of already. The wrong state.

Ivan was _at least_ another thousand kilometers away.

"They said they would find us another flight for tomorrow," said Katyusha uselessly. "When the weather clears up…"

"Who knows when that will be?" Natalia practically spit the words. Katyusha opened her mouth to scold her sister's usual negativity, but after glancing out the window again, she could not find the words. It was the kind of rain that looked endless. Natalia softened her voice. "Ivan's therapy is tomorrow."

The rain seemed to get heavier. Katyusha followed a single drop down the glass of the window, watching it zig-zag until it dispelled into a puddle. Something had always been… wrong, with Ivan. She couldn't say she understood it beyond a surface level, from his meltdowns to his clinginess to his childlike view of the world, but would it really make a difference if she did? She had failed her job as a big sister the moment she allowed Ivan to travel across the world by himself, knowing full well how it would end.

Katyusha knew Ivan needed them. He had needed them when he moved to America to begin with, needed them when he stopped calling, and needed them when he finally called again. When Ivan finally did call, it had taken everything in Katyusha not to sob in relief. He might have been in the hospital, but damn it, she knew where he was. For the first time in months, she knew where her baby brother was. Living. Breathing.

She wanted to hug him and never let go just as much as she wanted to wring his neck. Katyusha could not fathom why Ivan had kept everything from them for so long, only to unload it all in one breath with a midnight phone call. But that was just who Ivan was. Everything was always fine until it wasn't, and then suddenly nothing had ever been right.

"Katyusha."

Katyusha blinked away her monologue and looked back at her sister. Natalia was staring at her, arms and legs still crossed, waiting.

"Maybe…" Katyusha ran through every option they had, just as she had five times already. Really, they had no options. As far as she could tell, they were utterly stranded. She forced a smile. "We should eat something."

.

The airport was suffocating so Katyusha opted for a questionable diner just down the road. It was not quintessentially American like she had seen in pictures, all red vinyl and black and white checkers, but rather a generic wash of beige and blue. It was attached to a gas station. Before coming to the states, at least some part of Katyusha had expected something more magical.

But Natalia never expected anything to be magical, and perhaps that was for the best. She picked at the dish they had agreed to split, some meat and cheese monstrosity that could probably feed both of them for a week. Neither of them had eaten much. "Why did we walk here," she said. "Both of us are soaked now. We could have stayed inside."

Katyusha opened her mouth only to close it again. This was not the bright spot in their day she has hoped for. There was no reason to run out in the rain for the sake of mediocre food, other than maybe a change of scenery, and she had failed in even that aspect. The rain against the windows of the restaurant was just as monotonous as it was in the airport, the air just as stale and the lights just as dim. Not to mention Natalia was no happier than she was, they were no closer to Ivan, they didn't really have the money for this, this whole idea was stupid, stupid…

"Dude, this rain is crazy!"

The voice exploded through the near-vacant restaurant. Katyusha blinked, startled, and looked behind her shoulder. A man stood in the doorway, soaked and beaming. His words were meant for no one and everyone at the same time. Drops of water flew off hair too yellow to be real, rushed down worn leather and fogged glasses. A waitress stared, then smiled. Katyusha just stared.

"Got a table?" the man continued, either ignorant to the emptiness of the place or just ignoring it. His eyes flitted to Katyusha's. Without breaking his grin, he waited a beat and said, "Never mind. I'll just sit at the bar."

Katyusha stiffened. She looked away from him, down to their discarded carry-on bags slumped beside their seats and weaved a foot through the strap. Natalia continued to stare at their now-cold plate and Katyusha really wished she would pay attention. The strange man was approaching; no one else was here. This had been a stupid, stupid idea. Her worst yet.

"Some weather."

The man was next to her now, looming in a barstool too close to their table. He settled in the seat with a sigh and the squeak of wet sneakers. He swiveled the chair in their direction, just enough to notice. Katyusha said nothing.

But he continued to speak. "Man, this really is the middle of nowhere, huh? I must have driven fifty miles before I could find so much as a gas station. I almost ran out. Can you imagine, stuck out here with a broken-down car? What a disaster!" He flagged down the bartender and ordered a cola, doing so with a chuckle and another easy quip.

Katyusha loosened her fingers, one at a time. She understood about half of what the stranger was saying, and he spoke loudly, too loudly, but he kept his distance. She wondered why he was speaking to her. Maybe this was simply how Americans operated, forcing conversation on complete strangers, commanding attention, expecting friendliness from everyone.

For a strange moment it reminded her of Ivan.

"I'm just glad I found a place to stretch my legs and eat something, even if it is a little dumpy," he said. Katyusha watched from the side of her eye as he shrugged off his jacket and rested his elbows on the counter. His hand hit the surface with a metallic clink, the stones on his ring reflecting off the florescent lights. The gaudy piece of jewelry engulfed his finger.

Natalia spoke before Katyusha could gather her thoughts. "Who are you?"

He blinked, cocked his head, but quickly regained his boisterous composure. "My name is Alfred F. Jones!" Why he felt the need to announce his full name, Katyusha had no idea. But it was kind of entertaining. She let the strap of her bag fall to the floor. "And yourselves?"

Katyusha let herself speak. "I am Katyusha," she said, careful to annunciate. "And this is my sister, Natalia."

Natalia gave her foot a nudge that was almost a kick, but Katyusha ignored it. What was the worst that could happen, really? They were already stuck, soaked, and near penniless. If divulging their names to an eccentric stranger was what truly sent this trip into chaos, it would merely be the straw.

"Huh, okay. Not from around here?"

"No," said Katyusha, ignoring Natalia's pointed stare. "Russia."

Alfred's eyes widened behind his thin wire frames. "Wow! That IS quite a ways. That's, like, totally awesome."

Katyusha almost laughed. Russia may have been home, but sometimes it hardly felt that way. She never liked the cold. And ever since Ivan had left, it seemed to only get colder.

"What brings you guys to West Virginia, then? It's not exactly a tourist state."

So that was the name. "We did not… plan, to be here. There was delay. With our flight." As if to make her point, a crack of thunder nearly raddled the table.

Alfred whistled. "Shit. That sucks. Can't say I'm surprised, though. Flights are getting cancelled left and right thanks to all these storms." A bead of water dripped from his collar to his jeans that he brushed away uselessly. "Good thing our first game is down south. Nice and dry there"

Katyusha blinked. "I am sorry? Game?"

Alfred blinked back. His brow creased and Katyusha wondered if it was a stupid question. But he smiled again, almost laughed, and said, "Football. I play for the New England Patriots."

Oh. Katyusha took a moment to study his jacket, the letter and the logo, the ring on his finger that must have cost more than their house. It dawned on her that perhaps this man carried himself like a big deal because he was. "I see," she said.

"Yeah. No games for a couple weeks, though," said Alfred. "Right now I just need to focus on getting to New York. Feels so far away."

"New York?" Katyusha may not have been versed in many of the U.S States but she knew that one. She knew it from the hours she had spent researching, pouring over airlines and flight times and hotel fees, from the moment Ivan had called to the moment she and Natalia had boarded the first plane. Far away was an understatement. Ivan might as well have gotten himself hospitalized on the moon. "What is in New York?"

"Oh, just…" Alfred must have ordered food at some point because a plate had appeared in front of him. He studied it, twirled a fry in the ketchup. "A friend," he finished. He popped the fry in his mouth and laughed again, drier this time. "You know, it's funny. Artie said one of his roommates is Russian."

"Funny." Seems all Katyusha could do was parrot. She took a sip from her previously forgotten glass of water, a fruitless attempt at soothing her suddenly dry throat. She scolded herself for being silly. "We are also going to New York."

"Wow, really?" asked Alfred. Katyusha nodded. "Huh. Weird. Are you guys on vacation? New York has some cool stuff. I went to high school there, actually."

Katyusha wrung her hands, folded them together. "No, not really. We are visiting our brother."

"Cool. Does he work up there? Go to school? Or – "

Natalia cut in sharply. "He is in hospital." She shot Katyusha another look, and again Katyusha opted to ignore it.

Alfred's face fell straight. "Oh." He picked up another fry and ran it through the ketchup but didn't lift it to his mouth. He just kept dragging it along the plate, creating greasy red lines, eyes far off. "Sorry to hear that." He let the fry drop and picked up a new one. "You know, this is getting way too weird."

There was no way. It hurt Katyusha's throat to swallow. "How so?"

"Arthur is in the hospital. I'm on my way to visit him." The words were slow, calculated. Alfred abandoned his food completely and turned just slightly further towards them. "Bellevue, near First Avenue."

Katyusha felt a zing of dizziness, of disbelief. "Oh," she said. Speaking English was much harder than it was a moment ago. "Oh. Ivan…Oh, Ivan is also…"

"You have GOT to be kidding!"

Alfred slammed the counter so hard Katyusha jumped, knocked her glass and sent icy water sputtering everywhere. She rushed to pick it up and Natalia cursed under her breath, but she was not scowling anymore and Katyusha knew she was listening now. The three of them had come to an understanding, one so absurd that she could not even say anything, because what was there to say really?

"He mentioned an Ivan," Alfred let the words run together in an excited jumble. He laughed, loud and manic, raising a hand to rest on his forehead. "Dude, no way! That's crazy!"

"Yes," said Katyusha. "I…"

"You know what? You said your flight was cancelled. Let me take you." Alfred pulled his damp jacket back on with incredible speed. "Driving so long kind of sucks, but if I go all night, we can probably make it by morning."

Katyusha slowed her rapidly beating heart with her first rational thought this evening. This was a stranger. It was almost too cliché, really… a strange American man tricking two foreign girls into thinking he was a big name with good intentions, only to leave them dead in a ditch five miles down the road. Surely, it would not have been too hard to find out where they were going, to fake this "coincidence." To accept was the kind of foolishness she would have scolded Ivan for as a child. Like the time he disappeared with the neighbor without telling anyone, and it had taken Katyusha hours to find him again.

Funny, Katyusha mused to herself, Ivan had always avoided him after that.

Realization hit like a tidal wave and for a moment Katyusha thought she might throw up on the table. Two and two snapped together, violently, suddenly, as she remembered the phone call.

 _I was very young, Katyusha…_

Natalia was saying something but it might as well have been gibberish.

 _He hurt me…_

Alfred was saying something but it might as well have been gibberish.

"Natalia, we need to go. Now," said Katyusha in Russian, her head buzzing because she suddenly knew who _he_ was and it was sitting like a boulder in her stomach. "Alfred is going to take us to New York."

Natalia gripped Katyusha's hand too tightly as she stood but she felt nothing. "What?" she said. "We do not know this man."

She was right. This man could have been anyone, he could do anything; it was completely out of their control the second they got in a car with a stranger. But Katyusha had failed Ivan enough. He had been traumatized practically in front of her eyes, and it had taken decades to notice. Not only that; he had to spell it out for her.

Katyusha ignored the strong urge to be sick and picked up her bag. She would get to Ivan, or die trying. "Please, Natalia," she said. Alfred was waving a gold credit card at the waitress and before she knew it their meal had been paid for. "You need to trust me."

So she did.

.

Alfred drove at a speed that was certainly too fast for the conditions. His windshield wipers moved like hummingbird wings, and it barely made a dent in the rain pounding hard enough to completely drown out the radio. Still, he kept a steady foot on the gas and simply gripped the wheel a little tighter. New York, New York was a little less than eight hours away, according to the GPS on his iPhone. Alfred took that estimate as a challenge. After all, he had three people to get there now.

"So," said Alfred, practically yelling over the rain. "What is your brother in for?" he asked and immediately felt bad for it. "You know, if you don't mind me asking."

"Is alright," said Katyusha. Alfred glanced in the rearview to their spot in the back. He wished he had taken his more practical car – Katyusha's height forced her to draw her knees almost to her chest. "Ivan is…" A pause. "Ivan is troubled. I do not understand, really."

"He is crazy," came Natalia's rare voice. Katyusha said something quickly in Russian, but Natalia continued over her. "What? There is something wrong with him. We have known this forever."

"I suppose." Katyusha spoke quietly. The end of the word faded into the storm. "I noticed a bit, when we were younger. I just never thought…" she trailed off again.

"It's okay, really. Like, I get it," said Alfred quickly, if only to end the horrible silence. "If it makes you feel any better, me and Arthur were best friends in high school. I never had any idea anything was wrong."

At least, that was what he had been telling himself up until recently. Over the weeks, when Alfred had nothing but long stretches of highway to look at and the four songs they played on the radio got old, he got to thinking, got to remembering, and saw the signs. The coffeeshop. His fever. Arthur's strange sideways glances and did-you-hear-that's. They were so small and hindsight bias was a bitch. But they were there.

To his surprise, Natalia was speaking again. "Ivan scares people," she said. The edge on her voice had softened. "He does not make friends easy. He is intense. Sometimes, he will cry and shout. He has always been this way."

Alfred glanced back at them again. Katyusha blinked a few times, then bit her lip. "Yes, but…"

A flash of lightning. " _I_ knew, Katyusha."

"Hey! Um," said Alfred quickly. Almost unconsciously, he pressed the gas the slightest bit more. "Either way, it's really cool of you guys to come all the way up here to visit him. That trip must have sucked, right? Flying is always such a pain, with security and everything." He was talking just to talk and he knew it, but it didn't stop him. "I can't do airports, too much attention. There was this one time…"

As he jumped into a story no one cared about, Alfred realized he needed to change lanes. Giving the car a bit more gas, he gave a halfhearted glance towards his blind spot, and, still speaking, began to turn the wheel. Simultaneously, he moved his hand to signal.

Alfred was cut off mid-word by the horrible shriek of a horn, and only then did he realize that a car in the other lane was dangerously close to his own. Gasps came from the backseat and a sting of panic struck his chest. For a second the world froze, but by the grace of God, he came to his senses fast enough to jerk the wheel the other direction. With a pounding heart and sweaty palms, Alfred was back safely in his original lane. They would miss the exit. Somehow he wasn't worried about it.

"I'm sorry," he said quickly, immediately. He searched for a reason to blame the other driver but decided he respected all three of them too much for that. "I wasn't looking. That was totally stupid. Are you guys okay?"

A pause. "Yes," said Katyusha, a little shaky but otherwise sincere. "We are fine."

"You need to be careful," said Natalia. Alfred could almost feel her eyes through the leather seat. He felt his face burn, almost irritated, but deep down he knew she was right.

"More careful," parroted Alfred. "Got it."

Alfred gave a disparaging glance towards the GPS, then the horizon. The highway stretched in front of him looked endless, even more so than normal. Seven and a half hours. Seven and a half hours until he could see Arthur, seven and a half hours until Katyusha and Natalia could see their brother. He had already been driving for six and it might as well have been a lifetime. They had missed the turn off, which would only make it longer… if this were any other trip, Alfred would have kicked it up past 90.

Reluctantly, he eased up on the gas.

* * *

 _To be continued..._

* * *

 _AN: So, this is the first chapter I've written since The Great Hiatus, and admittedly, this... is not the chapter I would have rather made my comeback with. If I'm being quite honest, part of the reason I stopped writing for so long is I felt like this story got stuck, and I knew I had to bridge the gap between the interesting bits with some, for lack of a better term, filler. Even better, my outline for this story got junked with my high school ipad, so I don't have my exact plan for the plot anymore. This is especially problematic as the hospiverse stories obviously all connect and figuring out what-happens-when in relation to everything else is a headache. Rest assured, I'm working on a brand-spankin'-new outline, one that I hope will be better than whatever I came up with at 17. Thank you all again for supporting me, and thank you, of course, for the patience. Hopefully, with what I'm working on, it'll be worth it._

 _\- Emily_


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